


The Art of Deduction

by NorthernLights37



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Detective Jon, Doctor Dany, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Modern AU, Modern-Day Westeros, Mutual Pining, Romance, Slow-ish burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:06:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27268453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernLights37/pseuds/NorthernLights37
Summary: Is it possible to fall in love, when you've never even touched?
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 155
Kudos: 610





	1. A Welcome Distraction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NoOrdinaryLines](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoOrdinaryLines/gifts).



> The plot bunny that showed up and wouldn't leave me alone then boom here it is, like over 20k. Splitting into two so I can get the next update polished up. Will post in two days. Enjoy, bitches! Thank you to the delightful Magali for the moodboards and encouraging (DEMANDING BUT NICELY) that I finish this.
> 
> No beta, as usual. Ignore my typos. You know what I mean.

* * *

Daenerys hates her new apartment, at first.

It’s perfectly nice, and well-appointed, but it’s a hollow, lonely space. Her only company, when she isn’t pulling the graveyard shift at the hospital, is Drogon, and the fat black cat is good at climbing into her lap when she comes home with the dawn, feet aching, head pounding, eyes tired, and purring like a car engine.

King’s Landing is like her new apartment, she thinks. It’s bustling and beautiful and a place that she can feel surrounded and yet utterly alone. Six months after her divorce, after freeing herself from her awful, shitty marriage, and she’s still trying to grow accustomed to sleeping alone.

But one day, an average, run-of-the-mill Tuesday morning, she’s on the couch, watching the early edition of the news and trying to decompress from her usual hectic night when she sees him. They really pack the buildings in, downtown, and her building is snugged tightly to the one next door, a paltry six feet of space existing between her floor to ceiling windows, ones that run the length of the apartment, and those of the unit across from her. She thought it was a rather shit view, when she moved in, but as she strokes along Drogon’s back she realizes she’ll have to change her opinion on that count.

There’s a man, one who’s just let himself in through the door. She’s never seen him before, but that doesn’t mean much. She keeps odd hours.

He’s cute, she thinks, eyes dancing from the television mounted on the wall to the wide panes of tempered glass to her right, watching him as he tosses his keys on a marble-topped counter much like her own and rubs a hand over his face. Just getting in, then. He must work the late shift, too.

She tries to be inconspicuous about her snooping, stealing glances here and there as the weather comes on. He’s dressed nicely, shedding a long black trench, a pressed white button up and black slacks appearing as he peels away his protection from the chill that has started to grip the coastal city. She spies the shoulder holster next, her interest piqued as he rids himself of that, as well, placing it on the counter by his keys.

She takes stock of what she can see of his face, in small snatches. Short, dark beard, neatly kept. Curly raven hair, a respectable length, not too long, not short enough to hide the natural body in it. He’s attractive, and it’s that realization that forces her to stop peering at him like a stalker and pay attention to the seven-day forecast.

Rolling her shoulders, Dany hears her stomach rumble, and realizes she’d better eat before she turns in. She gently deposits Drogon to the dark leather of the sofa cushion and walks into the small kitchen area, muttering when she sees rain forecasted for the next three days. She needs a new umbrella but she’ll wait ‘til she heads back into St. Baelor’s later tonight, too tired to want to bother with it now.

A bowl of cereal is easy enough to procure, and as she makes her way back to the sofa she allows herself one more curious look into the apartment across the way. She’s frozen in place, suddenly, when she sees him standing there, at the window, staring right at her.

For a moment, they just stare at each other. Then he smiles, a tiny quirk of his lips, and waves.

He has a nice smile, but she can’t help but think he doesn’t use it all that much. There’s something rusty about it, like his face is fighting the expression, but she hurries to do the same, waving and smiling back, biting her lip a bit in embarrassment when she realizes she’s been dripping milk onto the floor.

Her mystery neighbor gets on about his business, then, grabbing a remote and clicking on his television, a large white dog emerging from elsewhere in the apartment and butting his head against the man’s legs.

Dany settles back on the couch, after racing to the kitchen and mopping up the milk from the hardwood floor, and through sheer force of will she manages not to look his way again.

\------------

Over the next two weeks an odd sort of relationship develops between Daenerys and the man across the way.

Well, relationship is a stretch, she knows that, but it’s nice to think of it that way. She doesn’t really know that many people in this city, besides Missy, and a few of the doctors and nurses from the hospital. So it’s oddly comforting, to get home after a shift and see an increasingly familiar face doing the same.

They wave each time they see each other, and it’s all very harmless and innocent. That’s what she tells herself, each time she finds herself searching for him through two sets of glass. She likes to play a game meant only for herself, now, trying to guess at who he is or what he does. He’s a broody sort, this neighbor. His natural resting expression seems to be one of grim resignation, and she’s comfortable in her assessment that he’s law enforcement. The lack of a beat cop uniform could mean government over local PD. Sometimes he takes out something that’s likely a badge, but to date she has not managed to catch a peek at the interior.

But there are other things she’s learned about him, that don’t require so much guess work.

He’s single. He doesn’t have visitors that she’s seen, and his fairly spartan decor suggests no wife or girlfriend. She can’t really judge him for that; She knows how hard it is to try to meet someone or have a real relationship when you work insane hours. The truth, in fact, is that it makes her pleased in a way that is unsettling. 

He works out. A lot. Not in his apartment, that she can tell, but two mornings ago he’d left his bedroom after arriving home and had emerged in just a pair of athletic shorts. The sound she’d made would’ve embarrassed her, but only Drogon had been there to hear it, thankfully.

He’s a shit cook. She recognizes the black cardboard of his t.v. dinners, has quite a few of them in her own freezer. Or, maybe he can cook, and he just doesn’t, because what’s the point in cooking for one? She can scrape by, but her schedule is generally too hectic to commit to anything but prepackaged salads, protein bars, and the half-used bag of frozen chicken breast that is definitely freezer-burned. She gets this about him. She understands it, intimately.

He’s lonely. On that, she knows the signs all too well. And, like her, she thinks, it’s a complacent sort of loneliness. It’s the chosen kind. He’s certainly attractive enough to spend his free time with any number of women, in her fairly objective opinion, but he doesn’t. She understands this, too. Alone is easier.

And now, unexpectedly, thanks to the dark-haired man who, whether he knows it or not, keeps her company in this apartment she’s learning not to hate, alone isn’t quite so lonely at all.

\----------

Dany learns his identity almost a month to the day after she first spotted him in the apartment across from hers, and completely unintentionally. She’s standing at the nurse’s station, waiting on an inbound ambulance call, idly thumbing through the prior day’s paper. And then, like magic, there he is, in a quarter page article about a drug smuggling ring taken down by none other than King’s Landing PD.

She smooths a hand over the newsprint, flattening the wrinkles before she reads the caption below. “Detective Jon Snow, Major Crimes,” she breathes, grinning, absurdly giddy that finally she has a name to match the face. 

“Doctor Targaryen?” Margaery is shelving a chart, peering at her curiously over her shoulder. “Did you say something?” She wanders over and lets out a low whistle when she spies what Dany is studying. “My, my, who is that?” She winks, smirking as Dany grows flustered. “Talk about King’s Landing’s finest, yeah?”

Dany scoffs and shakes her head, folding the paper back as it had been and shoving it down the chipped white formica, as if it was on fire. “I don’t know what you mean. Just catching up on the local news.”

Margaery does not relent, though. Dany likes her well enough, though she finds it unwise, the way the auburn-haired nurse seems intent on working her way through the male staff as though they were tissues. “He’s hot. Maybe you ought to swing by the precinct, tell him you need his help investigating a crime.”

Dany rolls her eyes, even as Margaery laughs, the other woman’s scrub top proving much easier to focus on than her face. They’re covered in roses, set against a green background. Margaery leans on the counter, lowering her voice. “I would personally suggest the old-naked-under-a-long-coat trick.” She wags her brows meaningfully and Dany giggles, shaking her head.

“I’ll pass, thank you.” She’s not going to do anything of the sort, and she knows it. She’s grown comfortable with the anonymous companionship he provides, and nothing more. Then the call is coming in from the ER, a car crash victim in critical condition, and she doesn’t have to think about it any longer.

Hours later, exhausted, she trudges past the nurse’s station, and there it still sits, calling to her like a siren. She tucks it under her arm, looking around quickly, heart pounding like she’s robbing a bank vault.

\-----------

Another month passes, time grinding its way by, and things change a little, every day. It seems to her that they seek each other out, automatically, and she’s glad that the eight feet of space between the sheets of glass that concrete that separate them aren’t any closer.

It’s eight, not six. She measured.

If they were closer she knows he would see the heat that fills her cheeks when he comes in from a run, flushed and sweaty, standing in his kitchen guzzling a sports drink, his shirt clinging to his damp skin despite the definitely cold air that signals winter is finally upon them.

If they were closer, just two feet closer, she knows she would try a little harder for modesty. She does yoga at three o’clock, on the dot, every day. She streams the workout on the television in the living room, and she does not think it is mere coincidence that he happens to find his way to his living room at 2:55. Just like it’s not a coincidence that she has taken to wearing tops that are slightly more revealing than the plain tee and sports bra and ratty leggings she’d worn before.

She’s not trying to provoke anything, but she likes the way he looks at her. It’s not leering, not really. It reminds her of the way she has seen people gaze at paintings in the gallery ten minutes away. It’s appreciation, she thinks, and he is discreet enough that she knows he isn’t trying to provoke anything, either.

They usually end up eating at the same time, and one evening, before she showers and dresses for her shift, she finds herself staring down at her individual portion of lasagna with resigned distaste. She glances up, a flash of movement in her periphery, but it’s just his dog, rubbing a white, fluffy side against the glass of his window. Then she sees him, sitting on his couch, staring down at his food just as she had been, and when he looks up, suddenly, eyes finding hers, she laughs.

He laughs, too, and after a moment raises his glass as if he’s toasting her. So she does the same, and it’s so strange, because he is a stranger, really, but Detective Jon Snow has the loveliest smile she’s ever seen, the kind that makes her stomach flutter and heart beat faster.

Her shift seems to fly by, that night.

In her heart of hearts she knows she won’t do anything about this. She could look him up, she knows his name, could exit her building and enter his and figure out which door belongs to him. Eighth floor, fourth door in, same as her. The sad truth, one she knows better than all the others she’s ever learned, is that work is her life. It’s what she chose, and it’s rewarding far more often than it is heartbreaking. That’s all she needs. Everything else is just too messy.

The illusion of something more...that’s enough for Dany.

\-----------

Another few weeks and the city is lit with a multitude of lights. They twinkle on every street corner and shop window, and on a whim, she buys herself a tree. It’s a small thing, ridiculous really, three feet tall at most, but with two strands of multicolor lights, a box of gold plastic ornaments, and a small silver star to top it off, it makes her smile.

She sets it up on a night off, a few days before Christmas, so caught up in the act that she doesn’t notice he’s home until she’s done. He studies the tree for several moments, then looks at her with a half-smile and gives her a thumb’s up.

Dany chuckles, shoving her hands into the front-pocket of her coziest sweatshirt. She walks closer to the glass, long silver ponytail swinging, and makes a show of looking around the room he’s in, withdrawing on hand to raise it above her eyes, as though she’s searching. She jabs a thumb towards her tree, then looks at him expectantly.

Detective Jon Snow frowns, crosses his arms across his chest, and she is close enough to see the way the fabric of the sleeves strains across rather impressive biceps. He shakes his head, and waves a hand dismissively, though she sees his lips twitch as he tries to keep a straight face.

It would appear her neighbor is not a fan of the holidays. Normally, she would agree, but she’s determined to force this if she has to, try to manage a nice, quiet Christmas even if she spends it all by herself. So she crosses her arms, as well, cocking out a hip, a stares at him skeptically. “Really?”

He can read her lips, it seems, and repeats the word back with a forceful nod. She watches his mouth move, marvels at the fullness of his lower lip, wonders what it would be like to nip it with her teeth. “Really.”

Dany laughs, tossing the end of her ponytail over her shoulder, curling her toes against the too-long hem of her yoga pants. It’s hard to find any that are the proper length, with as short as she is. ‘Pocket-sized,’ Missy likes to call her. “Grinch,” she mouths, but this is not so clear to him, and she sees his brow wrinkle in confusion, his head tilting sideways. She repeats it, but he is still stymied, so she holds up a finger, indicating he should give her a second, and runs to the printer in her bedroom. She grabs a pen from the desk and, items in hand, returns to find him waiting for her.

Quickly, she writes the word, and slaps it against the window.

When he reads it, he laughs, uproariously. She wishes she knew what it sounded like. She thinks the Detective probably has a nice laugh, rich and deep, but that is impossible to know. He holds up a finger now, and disappears, and she grins when she sees he also has a sheet of paper in his hands. His response is messy but precise.

“Exactly.”

They both shrug, and laugh again, and that’s the end of it, but she is in good spirits for the rest of the evening.

For awhile, at least. Hours later, she’s watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, Drogon peacefully rumbling on her lap, when there is a knock at her door. Her heart in her throat, she peeks over, to find her neighbor sitting on his couch, his dog’s head in his lap, no doubt avoiding Christmas specials entirely. She’s disappointed, which is silly, because she doesn’t have time for entanglements, anyway.

But it is another emotion that fills her, when she peers through the peephole and finds no one there. Frowning to herself, perplexed, she unhooks the chain and throws the deadbolt, turning the knob only for the door, and her, to be pushed back as her visitor forces his way in.

“Daario?” Her ex-husband stands there, chest heaving, eyes red and watery. Drunk, she knows, and her pulse is pounding in the worst sort of way. “What in the hells--”

“It was you!” He advances on her, and her suspicion is confirmed by the whiskey on his breath, his wild eyes. “You fucking bitch!”

She backs up, slowly, and he follows, until she’s where she wants to be: within reaching distance of the handgun she keeps in the top drawer of the curio cabinet in her living room. “What are you talking about? What are you doing here? Get out!”

This only makes him angrier. “You RUINED me! I’ve lost my license, now, because of YOU!” He grabs her arm, hard, and thankfully it’s her left. Her right strays behind her, grabbing the drawer pull, and she fights to keep her breathing steady, to remain calm.

“You ruined yourself,” she says evenly, but whatever else she plans to say is cut short by a loud, persistent banging, loud enough that even Daario looks, trying to locate the source, his eyes widening as he stares out the window. Dany turns her head, too, and what she finds steals her breath.

Detective Jon Snow drops the fist he was banging against his window, his eyes murderous, not even looking at her, staring only at Daario. His other hand holds his gun, and he presses it against the window. From his back pocket, he pulls something that is revealed as a badge, and presses that against the glass as well. He mouths two words, and she has no trouble understanding them, and even in his drunken state, her ex-husband understands it as well.

“Get. Out.”

Daario curses under his breath. “Fuck.” 

It’s all the distraction Dany needs, and within a few seconds she has the comforting weight of the weapon in her hand. She thumbs the safety off as she trains it on Daario, and repeats the good Detective’s words. “Get out.” He stares at her, aghast, real fear overriding his anger, at least for a moment. “Now.”

He backs up, but his eyes narrow, and she sees he still can’t control his mouth when he’s too far in the drink. “This isn’t over you fucking bitch. Not even close.”

But he leaves, and she just stands, chest heaving, heart pounding in her ears. She keeps the gun in her hand as she walks to the door, fixing the chain, throwing the lock, until finally she turns and sags against it.

When she looks to the apartment across the way, her neighbor is gone.

She is trembling, tears welling in her eyes, and it’s like she can still feel his hand on her arm, wonders if he left a bruise. It wouldn’t be the first, from him, but this one, this one would be the last. If he came back, she’d kill him, and then the Detective across the way can take her to the precinct and book her if he wants.

Slowly, she retreats into her bedroom, then the bathroom, numb. She starts a shower, and leaves the gun on the back of the toilet tank, close enough to grab if she needs it. She stands under the spray for what feels like hours, letting the water mix with her tears, until finally it starts to run cold.

Dany takes her time drying off, still sniffling as she enters her dark bedroom, listening for any sounds that would indicate Daario’s return, but hears nothing. Drogon comes to twist his way between her ankles, and she wonders if he’s trying to soothe her or himself. She finds a pair of flannel pajamas, and with a heavy sigh returns to the living room.

He’s back, she sees, but he’s tense, sitting stiffly, his dog at attention by the door. He doesn’t look at her, but as she studies him she notices something odd. There’s something there, that wasn’t before. Gauze, wrapped around his right hand, visible as he reaches for the beer on the coffee table; the sight of it makes her gasp.

Frosty the Snowman has started, on the television, and she makes herself busy in the kitchen as the opening music begins, making a cup of cocoa, treating herself to far more marshmallows than anyone ought to have.

As she begins to shuffle back to the couch, her slippers sliding across the floor, she sees something, near the front door, a flash of white that is stark against the dark wood. She wonders, for a moment, if Daario dropped something, but as she kneels down she realizes what it is, and something in her unclenches, just slightly.

It is a business card.

It is Detective Jon Snow’s business card. She lets out a shaky breath, her thumb sliding over the raised crest of King’s Landing Police Department, reading the tiny lines of script that tell her what she’d already learned about him. Then she flips the card over, and sees he’s left her a message.

‘If that fucker comes back, give me a call. If you just want to talk, that’s alright, too.’ A series of digits is scrawled beneath the words, and she realizes it’s his cell phone number. Maybe it’s just the adrenaline thrumming through her, and maybe it’s a terrible idea, but she carries the card to the living room, setting her cocoa down and grabbing her cell from the end table, ignoring Drogon’s yellow, curious eyes.

She starts and stops twice before she finally screws up the courage to complete the number and hit send.

He answers after the third ring, and she peeks over to see him still staring at the television. He doesn’t know who it is, and why would he? For three months they’ve done nothing more than keep each other company through their windows. He doesn’t even know her name.

“This is Snow.” He sounds clipped, brusque, reaching for his beer again. But his voice is just as she imagined, a rich, deep timbre, slightly accented with something she can’t quite identify in three words.

“Hello, Detective Snow.” She’s watching him openly, now, and he looks around, almost comically, but then his eyes find hers and see the phone pressed to her ear. “Busy night?”

He lets out a bark of laughter, gaze still locked with hers. “Mostly uneventful.”

Dany smiles, a small thing, and stands, coming to stand in front of the window now. “Mine, too.”

Slowly, he stands, too, the hand not holding his phone clenching and unclenching at his side. He isn’t smiling at all, as he studies her, standing there in baggy flannel pajama pants, her wet hair hanging limp past her shoulders. “Are you alright?”

She bites her lip and nods, her free hand incapable of remaining still, as well, her thumb moving the ring on her middle finger around and around, over and over. It’s her mother’s ring, one of the only things she has left of the woman, the move a nervous habit she developed as a teenager. “I’m fine.”

She thinks he doesn’t believe her. She knows it, from the hesitancy on his face, but he doesn’t press her further, except to ask one last question. “Ever fired that gun?”

Dany sighs and slips down to the floor, sitting cross-legged, tired of standing. “Plenty at the range, although,” she frowns, “I haven’t found one here, since I moved. Never AT anyone, though. Came close tonight.” That’s the truth, the cold, honest truth, in its purest form. She would have. She’s quite sure of that.

He considers her, his face grim, and moves from his couch, mirroring her pose in front of his window, phone still pressed to his ear as his massive dog creeps over and settles at his side, clearly begging for a pet or two. “Your visitor seemed to know you. Friend of yours?”

Her jaw works for several moments before she answers, looking away briefly to study the beaded edge where glass meets metal along the base of the window. “Ex-husband,” she says, and when she glances up again there’s a bleak understanding there. She thinks his eyes are gray, but it’s hard to tell.

“That’s not the first time he’s put his hands on you.” It’s not a question, but she answers anyway, and realizes her fear from the incident has departed and is replaced by a roiling, slow-burning anger that churns inside her.

“It’s the last, though.” She is perfectly placid in her response, but she can tell he hears the iron behind it, knows what she will do if Daario is stupid enough to darken her doorstep again.

He grunts, and smiles, that dangerous little glint she’d seen before resurfacing. “Good.” Then he rubs at his jaw, absently, studying her. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Hmmmm.” She rubs at her chin dramatically, every passing second she spends talking to him seeming to make her feel a bit warmer, a bit lighter. “Is this an interrogation, Detective?” She arches a brow at him, and as she waits she shifts over to grab her mug of cocoa from the table.

She hears him snort as she rolls the warm chocolate on her tongue and swallows. “No, actually. I think I’ve got you pretty well-sorted, to be honest, except for one thing.” She raises both brows now, intrigued. “Your name. That remains a mystery.”

“Oh.” She grins, and warms her palm against the side of her mug. “It’s Daenerys.” She doesn’t know what grips her, really, then. She just wants to keep talking, likes the way his voice sounds in her ear, likes the way he focuses on her so intently, and after such a shit night, much like her overdose of marshmallows, she decides to indulge herself. Her grin turns saucy, and she is fully aware that she is flirting with him, but she goes with it. “You have me well-sorted, do you? That’s interesting. Tell me, then. What you know about me?”

He looks amused, but a little trepidatious, and she finds it endearing. That’s dangerous, really, because she has spent months reminding herself that she doesn’t need any sort of entanglements. “You sure?”

“Fire away, Detective Jon Snow. Dazzle me.”

The rapid shift in his demeanor is startling, as if he’s slipped on a mask, and he’s no longer her sinfully attractive neighbor. It’s truly the detective she’s listening to now, as he begins a rapid-fire assessment.

“You work odd hours, like me, but you’re not law enforcement, else we’d have met outside of our apartments before now. Three times I’ve seen you come home in scrubs, but usually I’d guess you change at work, judging by the duffel you usually leave and arrive with. You’re a doctor, and since there’s only one major hospital within walking distance from here I’d guess you work at St. Baelor’s.” His smile holds a hint of challenge. “How am I doing so far?”

She kisses her teeth and gives him a nod of affirmation. “So far, so good, but,” she pauses, teasingly, “You could’ve found all that out by a simple search, especially with the resources you have.”

He twists to grab his beer and takes a swallow. “True,” he concedes, “but I didn’t. Shall I go on, then? A few observations that I couldn’t find, as you say, with my ‘resources’?” He looks absolutely smug, now, and inwardly the little crush she’s been trying not to nurture grows, because if nothing else this little interaction confirms he’s been paying as much attention to her as she has to him.

“By all means.” 

Then he’s at it again, smile fading and face growing pensive as he continues to hold her gaze steadily. “You’re Valyrian, by blood. At first I thought maybe you dyed your hair that color, but you never show roots. And this is the second time I’ve been close enough to really have a look at your eyes. Purple. Very distinctive.”

“They could be contacts,” she retorts playfully, taking another mouthful of marshmallow and chocolate and letting them melt in her mouth.

He shakes his head, sure of himself. “But they aren’t.”

Dany swallows. “No,” she concedes.

“You were raised in Westeros, here in the Crownlands, I’m guessing, but there’s something else.” He seems to mull it over for a second. “Have you lived in Dorne?”

She’s impressed, and huffs out a bemused laugh. “For a few years. Went to high school there, actually, and college. But yes, when I was a girl, we lived in King’s Landing. How could you tell?”

He grins in satisfaction, and scruffs his hand along the head of his now-sleeping dog. “There’s a little lilt, in your voice, when you get to the end of each word. It’s subtle, but it’s there.” He keeps going, pointing a finger over her head, towards the small kitchen that is open to the living room space, directly at the hanging rackof cookware suspended from the ceiling. “You can cook, I’d say, because those copper pots and pans are expensive, and there’s some wear on the bottoms. You like to when you can, but it’s the combination of a high-pressure, demanding job and your status as single. Why go to all that trouble for just one person?”

She hums, taken aback at how much he’s managed to glean about her, and gives him a slow blink. “Anything else?”

A wicked smile begins, one that even reaches his eyes, and she feels a specific kind of thrill travel through her. “Somehow, you’ve managed to make flannel completely enchanting.”

Dany ducks her head, and she’s doesn’t feel so reckless, any more, about the minor flirtation she’s been indulging in, because he’s doing it to. She manages to look put upon when she raises her head and lets out a heaving sigh. “It’s a curse, really.”

“I’m sure.” There it is again, that particular look she’s become addicted to. Not a leer, but an appreciation. Then it’s gone, and he’s solemn, in a flash. “There is one other thing I know.”

“What’s that?”

He scowls and fiddles with the bandage on his right hand. It’s a fairly decent job, one he did himself, and not for the first time, she thinks.

“Don’t think you’ll have to worry about your ex popping in again.” She’d suspected where her neighbor had run off to, on Daario’s heels, but the confirmation makes her squirm all the same. She can’t decide if she likes the feeling or not. She’ll shelve it for later.

“Is that so?” He doesn’t look away, completely unashamed at whatever it is he’s done. 

“Oh, aye, that’s so.” He’s almost defiant, as if he expects her to be angry.

But she’s not. She can’t remember the last time she had anyone but herself in her corner. It’s nice, it floods her with so many unfamiliar emotions that she’s a little overwhelmed. 

So she smiles, blinking back the hot tears that have begun to well in her eyes, her throat right as she answers, simply and honestly. “Thank you, Detective.”

He’s still for a moment, and she can’t quite make out what’s bothering him, but he doesn’t keep her in suspense indefinitely. “Jon,” he corrects, gently, his voice dropping into an even lower rasp. “You can just call me Jon.”

A beat passes, then another, and they are locked in an unflinching examination of each other. She feels exposed, like he sees past all the walls she’s ever built, some old and calcified, some new and fragile. It feels like a test.

She gives him a half-smile. “Alright, then. Good night, Jon.”

He returns the gesture, but still his eyes cling to hers, stubbornly. “Good night, Daenerys.”

It’s out of her mouth before she can stop it, and maybe she’s gone mad, because there are very few people in the entirety of the world that call her anything but Daenerys. Her traitorous heart seems ready to add him to that list, though her mind protests, insists he’s still very much a stranger, even though there’s something easy and comfortable about talking to him.

“It’s Dany,” she says. “My friends call me Dany.”

He shuffles to his feet, and his face is hidden, but she catches the fleeting triumph on his face, just barely. “Well, then, good night, Dany.” He disconnects the call and gives her a friendly wave, then goes through the motions of shutting everything down for the night.

She likes the sound of her name on his tongue.

————-

Daenerys doesn’t hate her apartment, anymore. It’s the opposite, now. When she’d first moved she was more than happy to linger after her shift was over, not looking forward to going home to an empty space, save for Drogon.

But now, there’s Jon, close but still far away, and within days it becomes common practice for one to call the other once they realize they’re both home.

On Christmas Day, she takes her time walking home, pulling the overnight shift because most of her colleagues had spouses and children they wanted to spend the holiday with. She didn’t mind. The regulars of the night crew had all brought a covered dish, and they’d had an impromptu dinner at midnight, exchanged gift cards and foil wrapped candies, and it had been nice.

She turns onto her street, her mind returning over and over to the item in her duffel, an impulse purchase that she remains torn about. It’s nothing crazy; A dog toy shaped like the Grinch, because after she’d put up her tree he’d gone out and gotten one of those inflatables, meant for a yard, and set it up right by his window, so that she could see it. It was a Grinch of epic proportions, at least five feet tall, and lit from within, and he had seemed so proud of it, tickled that she laughed every time she saw it.

Now, she slows, because she’s passing his building, and she knows it might be overstepping whatever strange relationship they’re participating in. It’s solitude and companionship, all in one, with no pressure, and she doesn’t want to ruin it. But it’s just a dog toy, she tells herself sternly, and turns into the entrance just before hers, rides the lift to the eighth floor, and counts over four doors.

He always arrives home before she does, so he’s probably in there right now. She could knock. Maybe she should. But a warm soak and her bed are calling her, and she smells like a hospital, and this isn’t how she wants to meet him. She puts the gift bag outside the door, a bright red sack covered in candy canes, and leaves.

She makes it to her own elevator bank, in her own building, but it’s too late now. She’s left it. Knowing her luck, she might go back only to find he was coming home late, and she’s not going to see him face to face, without their buildings between them, in a messy topknot and blue scrubs.

Dany tells herself to be calm, and chill out, but she only manages that zen-like peace she’s looking for when she walks down her hallway, keys in hand, and sees something sitting on the floor outside her front door.

It’s a present. A wrapped box, in shiny green paper, no bow, no label, nothing to give away what it is or who it’s from, but she knows. She’s grinning so hard her cheeks are aching by the time she lets herself in, and she puts the present carefully on the counter as she lets her duffel drop to the floor and pulls of the white puffy winter coat she’s swaddled in. Drogon hops up onto the counter and she scowls at him, because he knows he’s not supposed to be up there, but she can’t resist his sweet face, even though he knocks the plastic bowl of fruit she keeps over in his haste to get his scratches.

“Naughty,” she murmurs, and kisses the soft black fur on his head. Then she snags her phone from her jacket pocket and pulls up her text messages, and punches in a few lines. She rolls her shoulders, willing to ignore the ache for a little bit longer, and grabs the gift. In the three years she’d been married to Daario, she’d had to buy her own presents. They’d both been working, at different hospitals, but as her star had risen his had fallen. And the more he’d drowned his sorrows in alcohol the worse things got. Now, he wasn’t a doctor at all, the licensing board had seen to that, with her deposition adding fuel to the fire, facing a wrongful death suit, and, if there were any gods at all to hear her prayers, would end up forever alone.

She can’t remember the last time someone that isn’t a blood-relation has gotten her a Christmas gift. She’s watching his empty living room, fingers slipping impatiently along the corners of the box, wondering what could possibly be inside, when Jon appears. And Merry Fucking Christmas, he is shirtless. She understands that his job perhaps requires him to stay physically fit, but he’s really an overachiever in that department. He’s all smooth, pale skin and muscle, as far as the eye can see, the charcoal-gray jogging pants he’s wearing are really doing R’hllor’s work in accentuating his ass. She doesn’t look away, because he’s looking at his phone, and all too soon he’s pulling on a gray, long-sleeved shirt and making a beeline for his front door. When he comes to stand at his window, part of the ritual, now, she does the same, and just for today she isn’t going to deny how happy it makes her, to see the excitement on his face.

They’re a lot alike, that’s what she’s come to learn, more and more. And from the way he can’t stop smiling, his eyes returning to the gift bag then dancing back to hers, she thinks maybe it’s been a long time since anyone bought him a present, as well.

Her phone rings, and she grabs it, knowing who will be on the other end of the line. “I guess I’ve been a good girl this year,” she teases, holding the gift up. “Santa brought me a present.”

He gives her a skeptical look. “Are you sure? That box might be full of coal.”

Dany rattles it, not hearing anything. “I have been extremely virtuous, I’ll have you know. I didn’t even do shots with the OR nurses, thank you.” He chuckles, but tries to look serious, even as she shrugs. “Of course, it’s hard to operate after too much Schnapps, or so I hear.”

In tandem, they sit facing each other, she in her blue scrubs and sneakers, he in his gradient of grays. His eyes are tired, and she knows hers are, and she knows this could wait, but it’s Christmas morning and she has a present to open.

“Go on,” he urges. “Open it. Just tear right into it, Doctor.”

She feels like a kid again, giddy with excitement, and she tucks the phone between her ear and shoulder so she can rip the paper open, nothing surgical at all in the way she digs in. She opens the flaps, and finds the interior is filled to the brim with tissue paper, packed tightly. “

He’s watching her, just as eagerly, gesturing with his hand for her to get on with it. She can hear his breath in her ear as she begins to pull the white paper free, and finally her gift is revealed.

“Oh,” she gasps. Gingerly, she pulls the heavy, solid object free, holding it up to the pale morning light that streams through the glass. “It’s beautiful.” And it is, she isn’t just putting him on, giving him an empty platitude. It’s a snow globe, delicately-made, the base gilded in gold leaf, the scene inside a whimsical reimagining of the city skyline, surrounded in flurries of swirling white. There is a lump in her throat, and she swallows it down, and meets his eyes, cradling the globe in her hands. “Thank you.”

Then her stomach seizes and drops, because it really is a lovely gift, and she got him a stupid toy for his dog.

“My turn,” he says merrily, and she can’t find the words to stop him before he flings the green tissue paper peeking out of the box away. He’s going to be disappointed, she knows it, she feels so utterly stupid that she just wants to crawl away.

Then he laughs, and it grows louder and louder, and her panic starts to recede as she looks up to see that he’s flopped back on the floor, the bright green and red dog toy that matches his ridiculous inflatable Grinch clutched tightly in his hand. He groans as he collects himself, and it does something to her, makes her keenly aware of the way his shirt hugs his chest and arms. It’s a sound she wants to hear again, under other circumstances, but she silences that horny corner of her brain as he sits back up and wipes under his eye.

“It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.” He whistles for his dog, who’s been staring at Jon like he’s crazy. “Do you know why?”

She purses her lips, trying not to laugh. They talk nearly every day, and she has learned how his strange mind works. He’s brilliant, and driven, and a bit odd, and all those things make him an excellent detective.

Dany makes sure he can hear the sauciness in her voice when she answers, because it isn’t too complicated to figure out how he would answer himself. “Because Ghost has been a good boy, this year, and you haven’t?”

He clucks his tongue, and there is a glimpse of something far deeper than fondness on his face, but it’s gone, quickly, and she thinks she might have imagined it. “Got it in one, Doc. You know, you’re really wasted at that hospital, saving all those lives, when you could be out catching criminals with your powers of deduction.” When she snorts, he doubles down, almost beaming at her. “I’m serious. Don’t you want to be out on the streets, chasing down bad guys? Solving crimes?”

Dany examines her present once more, marvelling at the detail. “No,” she says absently, her eyes flying a small cyclone of white as she shakes the globe. “I’ll leave that to the experts like you, Detective.”

“Fine,” he says, sounding disgruntled, but a quick check back to him shows her he’s still grinning. “Let me know if you change your mind. I can pull some strings.”

The need for sleep is creeping in, and when he lets out a jaw-cracking yawn of his own she knows they’re in the same boat, that he won’t think she’s being rude if she lets him go. He’ll be there, eight feet away, when she wakes up. With an apologetic smile, she rubs at her eyes, quickly, knowing they’re probably bloodshot and puffy. “I’ll keep that in mind. But for now, I’m afraid, I have a hot date with my bathtub. My feet are killing me.”

Inside, she smiles as the very particular flicker of interest she sees in his eyes, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Well, I won’t keep you from it, then, it sounds very promising. I actually have very intimate plans with my bed. I might even use two pillows, instead of one. Depends on how adventurous I’m feeling.” His deadpan delivery makes it even funnier, and she pictures him all cuddled up, snug beneath a comforter, whispering sweet nothings to his pillows as he succumbs to sleep.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, “How very scandalous!” She lets out a moan as she stands, a muscle in her thigh cramping, and rubs at it, wincing. “Well, good luck with that, and Merry Christmas, Jon.”

“Merry Christmas, Dany.” They part with a wave to each other, and she closes the blackout curtains in her bedroom, a necessity in both the fact that one entire wall is composed of glass, even in this room, and the work schedule she’s on. She places the snow globe on her nightstand, and watches the white flakes fly one more time, before she goes to run her bath.

It’s an hour before she makes it into her bed, skin scrubbed clean, and as she burrows further under her down comforter, she wonders if he’s doing the same.

There is an irony that does not escape her; In the months since she’s moved in, she’s finally gotten used to having this big bed all to herself, and now, she can’t help but wonder what it would be like to share it with Detective Jon Snow.

—————

New Year’s Eve is one of the worst nights of her life. A family comes in, a mother and father and eight year old boy, all critically injured in a head-on collision by a drunk driver. Dany gets the mother. She works quickly, and expertly, doing everything she can to try to keep this woman from the morgue.

Time of Death is 5:33 a.m. The father follows soon after, she learns, at 6:15. The son survives, but it is little comfort. By the time she leaves there’s been no success in locating any next of kin.

It isn’t the first time she’s lost someone on the table. It happens. 

But her heart is as heavy as her feet when she trudges home, the sky painted in streaks of red and gold. A beautiful morning for most of King’s Landing, yes, but not for the little boy who will wake up to learn he’s an orphan.

She’s already choked up, barely holding back tears, when she lets herself into her apartment. She walks resolutely to the cabinet above the stove, takes down the bourbon she keeps stashed for days like these, when she needs to forget for awhile. She’s never been a big drinker, she and Daario were quite different in that respect, but she knows it will make her numb. She makes herself a drink, uncaring that it’s 8:15 in the morning.

Jon’s apartment is dark, which isn’t surprising. She knows his night was probably as busy as hers. She sips, welcoming the burn as the alcohol travels down her throat, and waits.

By the time he arrives, thirty minutes later, she’s on to drink number two, still feeling as though a dam is about to burst in her chest, but building up a pleasant buzz that is starting to dull the ache.

Jon looks terrible, especially brooding, and as he takes off his coat sees blood on his shirt. He doesn’t bother taking off his holster, because then he sees her, and comes closer to investigate. He takes her in, eyes lingering on the glass in her hand, as she salutes him with a bitter smile.

His eyes land on hers again and there’s misery, there, and anger, and no small amount of understanding.

Jon kicks off his shoes, flicks on his kitchen lights, and pulls a bottle of whiskey from his narrow pantry. Then he comes back, sitting on the floor, and pulls out his phone.

She answers on the first ring, and closes her eyes, his low, rough voice the first pleasant thing that’s happened to her since the old year became the new nine hours ago.

“Rough night?”

Dany takes another drink before she feels ready to meet his eyes. “Yeah,” she sighs into the phone. “If you’re into drastic understatements, you could go with ‘rough night’.” He doesn’t say anything, opening the whiskey bottle and taking a long pull from it, completely unphased by the liquid fire that must be burning it’s way to his stomach. “By the looks of it, I think yours was, too.”

He nods, but takes his time studying the label on the bottle. He breathes, heavily, in and out, for several heartbeats, and when he looks up again he is a the picture of despair. “Sometimes, Doctor Dany, I get cases that make me think ‘alright, this is it, this is the line in the sand, the low bar for absolute depravity that we, as people, are capable of.’ And then the universe says ‘Hold my fucking beer’, and I get a night like tonight.” He shakes his head, and she feels frozen, pinned in place by the horror in his eyes. “Been following that string of kidnappings that’s been in the news lately?”

Her stomach drops, and the ache she’d thought was gone returns with a vengeance. It’s been front page news for months now, children being abducted from Flea Bottom, seemingly at random, like clockwork. Five, she remembers. Whoever was doing it was up to five, now.

Dany nods. “Yeah, I’m familiar with it.”

“It’s been my case since the first. The fucker was smart, I’ll give him that. Knew to target kids that wouldn’t be reported right away, kids no one would give a shit about, kids that would be reported as runaways first. Street kids, foster kids, kids from fucking orphanges.” He sounds angrier with each word, and she is quite certain, now, that there is no bright side to what he’s about to say, no silver lining. “We cracked it, tonight. He got sloppy, on the third. One small drop of blood. That’s what we had to go on. And if it didn’t take a fucking eternity to get the fucking results back, maybe I could have--” His voice breaks, and he clears it roughly, and treats himself to another swig of whiskey. She takes another drink, deciding she will match him, drink for drink.

“Anyway.” He lets out a hard breath. “Fucker donated blood five years ago, we got a positive ID. We try his house, it’s a bust. My partner finds out the guy owns a warehouse just outside the city.” He slumps a bit, and she braces herself for what she expects to come next.

She isn’t wrong, and she wishes she was, the tortured sound of his voice making her swallow down the remnants of drink number three quickly.

“An hour sooner, Dany. An hour sooner, and they’d still be alive.” His mouth twists bitterly, and she can see that the hand gripping the bottle is shaking. “Fuck, hang on.”

He stalks around the corner, down the hallway she’s sure leads to his bedroom. She takes the opportunity to make another drink, cubes of ice clinking into the glass, her hands seeming to move on auto-pilot. His tale is distracting her from her own shitty, terrible night, and a small part of her is grateful for it.

The other part is overcome with sadness, the commiserating sort, because while what they face is not entirely the same she knows how these sorts of things can weigh on the soul. She still remembers the name and face of everyone she’s ever lost in an operating room. Every single one.

She grabs a bag of pretzels from the pantry on her way back, knowing she needs to get something in her stomach if she’s going to keep drinking, and not really up to searching for anything more filling.

When she settles back on the floor, sitting cross-legged, he’s returned as well. He doesn’t look at her as he lights a cigarette, and takes two drags before he speaks again. She presses the phone tighter to her ear, gripping hard, because she can almost smell the smoke, can almost taste it. She shouldn’t, she really, really shouldn’t, she knows that. But she has--

“Go get yours, Doc. I know you have ‘em.” 

She doesn’t bother to ask how he’s worked that out, and he’s likely just guessing, but she rolls her eyes at him and opens the kitchen drawer by her stove, reaching far into the back until her hand finds the lighter and cigarettes she keeps stashed for her most stressful days.

There’s an old ceramic ashtray in her junk drawer, one she’s had since med school, and she brings that as well.

“Happy now?” She waves the pack at him, then pulls out a cigarette and lights it, closing her eyes and letting the smoke stream out in a steady stream.

His mouth twists in something that might, in some circles, pass as a smile. “Overjoyed. Misery loves company, Doctor.” Another drag and another drink and he seems ready to continue, but each word sounds as though it physically hurts as it leaves his mouth. “He slaughtered those kids, Dany. He kept them alive, you know, ‘til tonight. All of them. Then somehow he found out we were on to him. Someone tipped him off.” There is only eight feet of space between them, but it feels like they might as well be worlds apart. The desolation and weariness in his voice is devastating. “He’d been drugging them, doing unspeakable things to them. Unspeakable, Dany.”

Her hand trembles as she takes a drag, flicks ashes into the ashtray on the floor beside her knee. “I think I have a fair idea.” And she does. She knows what sort of monster he hunted tonight. She’s seen them for herself, in the scars they leave behind, on the ones they hurt. She’s seen the sorts of things that make it hard to sleep, things that can’t be forgotten.

“He made videos.” She feels as sickened as he sounds. “No doubt to enjoy later. He boxed them all up, you know. Then, he lined those kids up against a wall, and shot them, one by one. One hour, Dany.” He angrily stubs out his smoke into a metal ashtray at his side. “Sixty minutes. That’s how late I was. That was the difference between living and dying. But he was still there, when we arrived. Loading up his car.”

Her eyes fly to the blood on his shirt. “You killed him.” There is no judgment in her voice, and he doesn’t take her statement that way, because it is nothing more than voicing a fact, waiting for his confirmation.

“Yes.” He takes another drink. “I did. He had a gun in his glove compartment, reached for it as soon as my partner and I were out of the car, pointed it right at Grey’s head. And I shot him.” He ticks off three fingers in succession. “Three shots. And now the world is short one less monster.”

The bourbon doesn’t burn anymore, and she takes a healthy swallow, and lights another smoke. “Good.”

His head ticks to the side, and in the brightening daylight she sees the shadows under his eyes, the haggard weariness that settles on him like a heavy blanket. “But I was too late.” Silence falls and there is only their breathing, as they stare at each other through the glass. “Now it’s your turn, Doctor Targaryen.” He blows out another cloud of smoke and points at her. “Go on, share with the class.”

She closes her eyes, and sees the boy’s face there in the darkness. She sees his mother’s face, sees every suture she made, sees the wreckage that woman’s body had been. They’re still closed when she starts talking. “Car accident came in. Three patients. Father, mother, son. I got the mother.”

He hums in her ear, as if encouraging her.

Another swallow of her drink and she continues, trying to focus, trying to speak through the stone that seemed lodged permanently in her throat. “She’d lost a lot of blood at the scene. Multiple fractures and broken bones. Left lung was punctured in three places.” She watches his hand for a moment, the way he’s holding his cigarette, then looks to his other, sees the way his long fingers still have a death grip on the whiskey bottle. “She was already dying by the time I got her. But I thought I could save her. I was determined to save her.” She scoffs and shakes her head. “But then I always think that, Detective. I am always convinced that I can rescue them, you see, bring them back from the brink.”

“One of the many things we have in common, Doctor.” He’s slurring his words, but only slightly, and she can see that he has relaxed a bit, tension seeming to slowly drain away. “Our enormous hero complexes.”

She laughs in spite of herself. “I suppose that’s true. I’ve lost people before, Jon. That wasn’t the worst of it. Next room over, the father was dying as well. And by the time the sun started rising, this morning, they were both dead.”

He narrows his eyes, and she can practically see his mind turning, working. “The boy?”

The boy, yes, that was what weighed on her the most. “He’s alive. Stable.”

She can see that he understands, that he has stumbled upon a deeper wisdom than he ought to have, and realizes he’s been doing a bit of digging into her, after all. “And now he’s an orphan,” he says slowly, gray eyes boring into her, excavating all of her ghosts. “Just like you were.”

“You are an excellent Detective, Jon. You’ve been doing your homework.”

He smiles, though his face seems to fight it, and drinks. “You are a mystery, Daenerys. A puzzle. One that should be solved.” He shrugs and takes a drag. “So, yes, I’ve done a bit of looking.”

She isn’t offended. She’s expected he would. She is, actually, surprisingly flattered. “Then perhaps you can deduce the part of the story I haven’t told you, yet.”

He leans back, considering her, and releases his death grip on his booze to rub at the back of his neck. “Drunk driver,” he says quietly. “Just like your parents.”

“Got it in one, Jon. I am appropriately dazzled.” She shifts over to lean against the wall, at the place where glass meets plaster, her knees drawing up to her chest, her eyes never leaving his. “But I had a brother who could take me in. As far as I know, Ned Umber does not. Ned Umber will wake up, sometime today, and learn that the life he had before is over. And he has no one to turn to, nowhere to go. Everything he knew is now changed, forever, because some asshole who walked out of that crash with a broken fucking finger and whiplash had to tie one on for New Year’s Eve.”

She hears his quick intake of breath, as though something has just occurred to him, and he holds up a finger. “Hang on,” he says quickly, and thumbs at his screen. “Let me put you on speaker.” He spends several moments typing away, cursing every now and then as he has to start over.

“Is now the time for a drunk text, Detective?”

He squints at her, frowning. “I am not drunk, Doctor. Not yet, anyway.” Finally, after an eternity, he’s done, and the phone is back to his ear. She waits, expectantly, as he lights yet another smoke, but he’s different. His melancholy seems to have faded, just a little.

“What was that?”

He chuckles, and smiles at her, and she’s surprised to see something like hope when their eyes meet again. “Maybe nothing. But maybe something.” He moves to mirror her position, something she’s noticed they do quite often, and he leans against the wall, drained. “We’ll see.” He rolls his head to face her. “I was too late for those kids, tonight. But maybe we can do something for Ned Umber.”

“Who did you text?” The iron fist that has clenched her heart for hours is releasing, one finger at a time. “What did you do?”

“Texted someone who might be able to help.” He yawns, and rubs at his eyes. “I need some sleep. So do you.” His voice is gentle, but he’s prodding her, and she knows he’s right. She wants to collapse, to sleep for days, but she only has until the afternoon. “Get some rest.”

Dany stands up, legs aching, and watches as he does the same. “We can’t save them all, Jon. That’s the thing I hate the most. I love this job. I do. It’s my life. But I can’t save everyone, and neither can you.”

He nods, and there is a new softness to his face as he stares at her. It is almost a caress. “But we still try, don’t we?”

She gives him a half-smile, her eyes heavy and lids dropping as she nods tiredly. “It’s who we are.”

“Good night, Doctor.” He gives a little wave and waits, and gestures at the daylight flooding into his apartment. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Good night, Detective.” 

She hangs up, and makes her way to the bathroom, like she’s in a trance. She showers and cries until she has run out of tears, and crawls into bed. She knows he is likely doing the same, just a short distance away.

The thought of it, the picture of him in his room, in his bed, maybe facing towards her window, just as she faces towards his, makes her feel a little less alone, and it’s enough. 

\------------

When she arrives at the hospital, the sun has set, and her work day begins. But tonight, she is told she has a visitor, so she changes quickly in the locker room and warily makes her way to the nurse’s station.

It’s a cop. It is not Jon Snow, however.

This man is older, with a cropped gray beard, balding, in a pressed uniform. She can smell the starch as she nears, mingling with his cologne. He has kind eyes, and when they settle on her, and light up, she smiles in spite of herself.

“You must be Doctor Targaryen.” He flashes his identification at her, but his name is clear enough on his chest. “I’m Captain Davos Seaworth, Kings Landing PD.”

She leans against the tall counter, and surveys him. “And to what do I owe the honor of this visit, Captain?” Her brow raises. “Is this police business?”

He looks around, finding they have an audience, the cluster of three nurses behind the counter blatantly watching. “Is there somewhere we might talk, privately?”

Dany glances at Margaery, who quickly turns and pretends to be studying a chart. “Yes, Captain,” she says with a wry smile, and gestures down the hall. “Right this way.” She leads him to a room she knows is currently empty, the bed free of occupants, and flicks on the light, shutting the door behind him once he’s followed her in. “Now,” she says, her curiosity too great to contain, “what can I do for you?”

Captain Seaworth clears his throat roughly, clasping his hands together in front of him. “I wanted to speak with you about the boy that came in last night. Ned Umber.”

Dany’s eyes drop to the floor, and see the shine on the man’s black shoes. “He’s not my patient, Captain.”

“I know.” Her eyes flick back up to find him studying her. His jaw works for a moment. “Jon told me about him.” If Dany is curious, Captain Seaworth is, as well, his keen stare belying his interest. “I believe you know him, don’t you?”

“We’re neighbors.” There is no way to know exactly what Jon has told this man, and she isn’t even sure how to precisely describe what is happening between her and the detective across the way, not even to herself. That he is her neighbor is the most succinct explanation she can offer, and so it is all she offers.

The man nods, and rocks on his heels, laughing softly under his breath. “So he said. I just wanted to come by and personally let you know that the lad will have somewhere to go, when he’s discharged.”

“What?” She takes several breaths, a cautious hope flooding her. “Have you found any next of kin?”

The Captain’s face falls, and steals her burgeoning hopes with it. “No. ‘Fraid not.” He glances at her, must see the despair that she’s sure is clearly present, and smiles. “He’ll have to settle for me. And my wife.” His smile grows at her shock, her eyes growing wide as she tries to process what he’s saying.

She shakes her head, in disbelief, trying to understand. “But why? Why would you do that?”

Captain Seaworth kisses his teeth and sighs, and she sees the remnants of some old, forgotten pain in every line of his face. “My wife and I were never able to have children. We tried and tried, for years. And then, years ago, long before I was a Captain, I had a case come across my desk. Brother and sister, parents murdered in a break-in. Gendry and Shireen.” His voice grows wistful. “Nowhere to go. Marya says I’m a bit of a bleeding heart. But I knew what would happen to them, if the system got them. They’d be separated, shuttled around until they were grown, enduring all manner of things in the space and time between.” His throat bobs, and his voice grows thick, and she understands. “It was only supposed to be temporary, but six months after we took them in, we adopted them.”

Her eyes feel hot with tears, because she does not often come across someone as uncommonly kind as Davos Seaworth seems to be. “How many since?”

Captain Seaworth laughs ruefully. “Ahhh, let’s see. Four more that we’ve adopted, twenty that we’ve fostered.” He grows serious, as if he can see every fear and worry that has plagued her since the moment Ned Umber’s parents breathed their last. “I’ll make sure the boy is safe, Doctor. You have my word.”

It is more than she has dared to wish for, and the weight that has been leaden on her shoulders lifts, brightness creeping into the darkness that always lingers when a life is lost on her table. “Thank you,” she whispers, and swipes under her eye, at the stray tear that has escaped.

Dany thinks they’ve finished, and dips her head in acknowledgement, turning to open the door to let them both out, frozen by his next words. “I’ll have to tell Detective Snow that he was right. Again.” He sounds amused, and she turns to find him smirking. “But he is rarely wrong.”

She opens the door blindly, the steadying bustle of activity outside creeping in again. “About what?”

He chuckles, and makes to move past her as she holds the door ajar for him. “Well,” he drawls, “When he asked me to come by and see the boy, to see what I could do, to come and speak to you, I asked him how I’d know which one was Doctor Daenerys Targaryen.” The Captain leaned closer, a gleam in his eyes that made her heart begin to tremble in anticipation.

“And what did Detective Snow say?” Her voice is breathy in a way she finds alarming, and her fist tightens on the cold brass of the door knob.

“He said go to the fourth floor, and take a gander, and when I laid eyes on the most beautiful woman in the whole bloody world, I’d know I found the right one.” He laughs, ruefully, and she knows she is blushing,

It’s still there, long after Davos has gone. It lingers, because she cannot stop thinking about it, about him. It’s ridiculous, the things she feels, that churn inside her, for a man she’s never even been in the same room with. She doesn’t know what to do with it, doesn’t know the right course of action, but she does know that, eventually, she will have to do something.


	2. Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slowly, but surely, they begin to move forward, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you all, very much, for reading and letting me know what you thought about the last chapter. I'll confess I've been binge-watching Sherlock so that's definitely what inspired some of the roots of the story, clearly Jon's character in particular. And then, in turn, that gave way to Dany's.
> 
> You will notice the chapter count has now changed, because what was supposed to be a simple one shot has morphed and grown into something else, and a two act play has become three. I hope you'll forgive my indulgence, but to do justice to our build I wanted to make sure the end was equally...satisfying. So up jumps our word count, because I have no self-control. Our finale will be up Monday. I hope you enjoy, and if you feel so inclined, let me know. Or don't. It's your party bitches, I'm just providing the cake and ice cream and streamers. What you do with it is up to you :)
> 
> As always, massive thanks to the other members of my brain twin (or is it triplet now?) alliance, my little hivemind babies Magali and NoOrdinaryLines, who are the realest bitches to ever exist, absolute ride or dies. And big shout outs to my Thot Patrol, who knows who they are and why they are so awesome.

* * *

Detective Jon Snow is having a party.

Well, that might not be entirely right. But there are five people crowding in his living room, intermittently drinking and cheering and throwing things. It’s a side of him she hasn’t seen, but she can tell that he is a little uncomfortable. He is surrounded by company but he keeps checking his gaze to her. Sometimes he rolls his eyes and points at one of his guests. Sometimes he just waves.

Missy is sitting next to her on her couch, because it’s Dany’s day off, and Missy’s and on the table in front of them is an enormous bowl of popcorn.

They are halfway through ‘Legally Blond’ when Missy finally notices Jon’s attention.

“Who’s that?” She points at Jon, and Dany looks, and a dark head is quickly facing forward again.

Dany bats Missy’s hand down, laughing. “Don’t point,” she hisses, giggling and leaning back against the couch. She doesn’t look back over, doesn’t dare. She reaches for a handful of popcorn, and shoves as much as she can into her mouth, instead.

“Your face is so red right now. Oh my god.” Dany throws her a warning glance, but Missy blithely ignores it, in favor of openly ogling the apartment across the way. Then she gives Dany a knowing look and leans in, nudging her elbow meaningfully. “Don’t be embarrassed, he’s pretty hot.”

“There is nothing for me to be embarrassed ABOUT, Missy. He’s my neighbor.” She doesn’t even believe it herself, no matter how forcefully she says it, ignoring Missy’s skeptical hum.

Then her phone rings, on the end table, and she knows from the ringtone who is. Around Christmas she had him programmed to play the Grinch song, but now that it is February she has changed it, and the theme from ‘Law and Order’ blares loudly.

She doesn’t know why she is so nervous to answer. Talking to Jon doesn’t make her nervous, usually, but then again this evening is different. She has an audience, and so does he, and there is a telltale tremble as she punches the button to connect the call.

“Detective.”

She doesn’t have to look to confirm the smile she hears in his voice. “Doctor.” He pauses, and she hears his breath hiss out. “You have my sincerest apologies for this.”

Dany can feel her brow wrinkle in confusion, and she looks over to find him wincing, phone to his ear. “Preemptive apologies are a tragic way to start a conversation.”

He nods, and smirks. “I agree.” Then he sighs. “Would you please put your friend on the phone?”

Now she is absolutely flabbergasted, and a little hurt, and she turns to Missy. “He wants to talk to you.” She hands over the phone, watching as Missy slowly raises it to her ear.

“Hello?” Whatever Jon says next has Missy standing, quickly, walking to the wide, expansive wall of glass, and it’s all she can do not to vomit when she hears Missy practically purr. “Well, hello.”

That’s it, she’s going to be sick, everywhere, but it’s like passing a car accident, she cannot help but look. She’s startled, when she peers across, to find it isn’t Jon that Missy is talking to, not at all. It’s another man, with smooth brown skin, and close-cropped hair. A military cut, she thinks, as he says something that makes Missy giggle like a schoolgirl. He has a nice smile, and he’s giving it fully to Missy, and for a moment she just watches them, as her friend murmurs into the phone, toying with her hair.

Then she looks to the man’s left, and there is Jon, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. The moment their eyes meet, he rolls his eyes, and shrugs. Then he walks past his friend, clapping a hand on the man’s shoulder, and rejoins the group paying vigilant attention to the large, flat-screen television mounted on the wall.

She laughs, and looks down, hands fidgeting in her lap, smiling as she watches Missy chat with Jon’s friend, faintly amazed at the speed with which Missy plans to see the man the next day. Lunch, she overhears, and she tries her best not to eavesdrop anymore than she already has, and eats another handful of popcorn.

Before too long Missy comes bounding over, so excited she bounces even after she sits, wiggling and giddy. She hands Dany the phone and lets out a loud, happy sigh. “Oh, my god. That man has the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard.”

Dany knows that isn’t true. The world’s sexiest voice belongs to Jon Snow, but she isn’t going to say that out loud. “Oh, really?”

Missy nods emphatically and crams popcorn into her mouth, talking around it. “His name’s Grey. He’s a detective. Jon’s partner.” Missy swallows and has several swallows of beer from the bottle on the table, delivering another shove to Dany’s shoulder. “I see handcuffs in my future.”

Dany bursts out laughing, throwing her head back. Life, she knows, is constant change, except for Missy, and she’s grateful for that. “Here you go, ready to corrupt one of King’s Landing’s finest, after one phone call.”

Missy gets a devious smile, and together they relax back against the couch, leaning against each other. “That’s the plan.”

Later that night, after Missy has left, and she’s cleaned up the mess from their ‘girl’s night in’, and spent an hour on the phone listening to Jon Snow’s assurance that his partner has no intention of absconding with one of St. Baelor’s best obstetricians and leaving her dead in a ditch, she climbs into bed.

She stares at the phone, and the temptation is there, to call him again, just to hear his voice. He is the source of many temptations, and if she was different, if her life was different, she would give in to the desires that he brings to life in her.

Once, when she was in med school, she shared a flat with a girl named Irri. Irri was nice, and sweet, but she completely lacked the ability to take care of herself. She broke up with her boyfriend, and fell into a deep depression, and became obsessed with the idea of getting a pet. They argued every night, because Dany was the pragmatic one, she could see the danger ahead. It was doomed from the start, for one glaring reason: Irri just didn’t have enough to give. She was barely hanging on in their classes. There wasn’t enough left, at the end of the day, to share with another, no matter how much she thought she could.

Three months after Irri arrived back with a puppy, Dany had become the only one who fed, and walked, and cleaned up after it. Irri moved out a month later, when the semester was over, and left the dog behind.

Dany ended up leaving the sweet little bassett with one of her professors, who had been overjoyed, but she had learned a valuable lesson, out of all that frustration and resentment.

It’s what stops her now, from reaching over and calling him, asking him if he wants to come over for a drink, asking him into her bed. He wouldn’t say no, she thinks. He wants her. She wants him. These are things they both know are true, even if it's never been said out loud.

There is something else that’s true, for both of them. At the end of the day, when he takes off his holster, and slaps his badge down onto his counter, and she slips out of her scrubs, there’s just not much left. Not enough to make something last.

He’s special. He’s different. He’s not like anyone else. So she will take what he has to give, and he will do the same, and that’s how things will stay.

But she wants, all the same.

She slips her fingers beneath the waist of her pajamas, and closes her eyes, and imagines he is there.

\-----------

Missy quickly falls head-over-heels for Jon’s partner, and gushes about him whenever she gets a chance.

Dany is happy for her, she really is. But she can admit to little flashes of jealousy every now and then.

One morning, after another rough shift for them both, they sit in front of their windows, and drink, and smoke, and Jon surprises her.

“Do you think this is weird?”

She laughs at how hesitant he sounds, and blows out a stream of smoke. “Could you be more precise?”

Ghost wanders up behind him, and bumps his head against Jon’s back, and for a quiet moment he whispers to his dog, but his eyes are serious when he looks back at her. “I think you know what I mean, Doctor Dany.”

She presses her lips together, tight, amazed that apparently, after seven months of this little game they’ve been playing, they’re finally going to talk about it. She gestures between the two of them, brows raised. “You mean this?” She snickers and takes a sip of her drink and sighs. “I thought we weren’t talking about this. Whatever it is. An unspoken agreement not to speak about it.”

This makes him laugh, but it’s not a happy sound. “Yes, you’re right. Of course you are.” His gaze shifts, to something over her head, and she sees his fist opening and closing relentlessly, the other wrapped around his phone. “Grey thinks it’s weird.”

Dany hums, low in her throat, and rolls her shoulders, and regards him with a smirk. “I can’t believe he has much time to have an opinion on it, between chasing down bad guys with you and fucking my best friend every moment he has free.”

Jon laughs, hard, and nods, but the look he sends her way once makes her heart twist. He looks how she feels, alone in her bed. It’s want and fear, so intertwined it is impossible to separate one from the other. He’s still smiling, but then he hangs his head, his hand straying up to loosen his tie and pop the top two buttons of his standard white dress shirt. “He is a man of many talents.” Then he smooths a hand along his jaw, and reaches for his whiskey. “But he doesn’t understand.” He tips the bottle up, and she cannot look away from him. It’s impossible. “But you do. And that’s why we do it.”

“It’s safe.” He nods, slowly, at her whisper. “And we, Detective, are dreadful cowards.” She laughs when he scowls at her, though his shoulders are shaking in silent laughter. “But as you say, we understand each other.” She raises her drink in acknowledgement, a salute, one coward in love to another, and echoes his words. “And that’s why we do it.”

But it’s not enough anymore, and they both know that, too. The want has overcome the fear, at last.

“Have dinner with me,” he whispers. “For real this time, not through our windows.”

He’s barely finished when she responds, with the only thing her heart will let her say. “When?”

She is gifted, then, with his smile, and in the seven months that have passed since the first time she spied him, so close and yet so far away, it’s the most beautiful one she’s ever seen, more than all the rest.

“When are you off next?”

Dany chuckles at the thrum of excitement in his voice, and mentally reviews her work schedule. “Thursday.” Then she holds up a finger in warning. “But nothing fancy, Detective.”

He’s grinning, madly, despite his exhaustion, and so is she, despite her own. “Thank god. I think I know a place that will work. Six o’clock?”

She pretends to think it over, and she doesn’t know why, perhaps clinging to the last vestige of the way things are before they change and morph into something else, before she leaves ‘safe’ behind. “Sounds good.” She arches a brow at him, and gives him a slow, languid smile. “It’s a date.”

They don’t say anything, for a long, ponderous moment, just staring at each other like lovesick fools.

Then he yawns, sheepish when his face straightens. “I’m beat.”

“Me, too.” She feels bashful, turning away shyly, and she pushes off the wall, ready to get out of her clothes and wash the day from her body. “Sleep well, Detective.”

“You too, Doctor.” His voice is low, and warm, the sound she’s become addicted to. She slips from the room, knowing her cheeks will be sore if she doesn’t stop grinning, but she doesn’t care.

She’s terrified and electrified and Thursday can’t come soon enough.

\----------

By the time Wednesday arrives she is a bundle of nerves. She has made preparations, since she agreed to this long overdue date with Jon Snow, and chief amongst them was a bit of a splurge for some decent lingerie. The state of selections in her underwear drawer had been absolutely abysmal, and it had been almost too much fun, perusing each lacy item, trying to picture the look on his face if he saw her in them.

She hopes he does. It’s their first actual date, yes, but it’s also been seven months.

As Missy had told her on the phone, on her walk to work, if she didn’t have sex with him soon she was going to explode.

She hums a happy little song under her breath and heads up, changing into a set of black scrubs with small red dragons all over the top, her very favorite pair, and laces up her shoes. For the first hour, things are slow, and she lingers at Margaery’s desk. She thinks Nurse Tyrell might be even more excited about her impending date than she is, and she has been chattering endlessly about places to go, sights to see, and most importantly, her favorite sexual positions.

Dany doesn’t mind too much. It’s been awhile, after all, and she picks up a few pointers, along with a handful of absolutely nots that make Margaery cackle with glee.

Then a call comes in, and playtime is over.

She’s scrubbing up, listening as Margaery rattles off what’s coming, looking through the plexiglass into the operating theater as it’s being prepped. Male, she hears, 33, multiple stab wounds to the chest. She grunts, preparing herself for a tricky situation, because there’s a lot that can go wrong in that area of the body. Then she hears Margaery gulp, audibly. “Police Officer.”

Dany shakes off the momentary burst of panic she feels. There are thousands of police officers in King’s Landing.

But as she sees her patient being brought in, she feels her heart stop. She freezes, and she can’t breathe, she can’t think, she can’t let herself accept the familiar face that recognizes, instantly.

“No,” she whispers. “No.”

“Doctor?” Margaery comes over, her face creased with worry as Dany turns her head, woodenly, to look at her. She feels as though the floor is swallowing her whole, the nurse’s words muffled as her ears buzz. “Daenerys?”

Then she shakes herself, hard, and looks back at Jon, as he is moved onto the table from the gurney, as he is prepped for her. So pale. He’s so pale. He looks dead, already.

“But he’s not,” she whispers, and she is plunged into the icy waters of the grim, stark reality.

He is on her table. He is her patient. He is broken, and she is going to fix him. She is going to save him. Jon Snow is not going to die. She grits her teeth, everything else falling away, and wheels around, pivoting on her heel and staring at Margaery with steely determination. Quickly, her gloves are on, and her gown, and once she is completely dressed for surgery she backs into the room. The low din of chatter and clatter of instruments dies, and each step takes her closer to the man on the table, the man from across the way, Detective Jon Snow.

She surveys the damage, for a few seconds.

“Margaery,” she calls out in a clipped voice, “My music, please.”

The beeping of Jon’s pulse on the monitor is a sweet song, on its own, but she needs to focus, now. A low, throbbing bass begins, as ‘Seven Nation Army’ plays through the speakers. She looks around, in command of herself in a way she’s never been before. This is her territory, the thing she’s best at. She has a mission, and she will see this through. She’s not going to lose Jon Snow.

“Shall we begin?” When her question is greeted by nods, she braces herself, and gets to work.

\------------

It is the longest twelve hours of her life. She works on him tirelessly, and suture by suture, she puts Jon Snow back together. It is an intimate thing. She has seen his heart, literally, felt it beat against her fingers.

Jon Snow has a good heart. Strong, steady, and stubborn, just like him. 

And he makes it through the surgery. He’s taken to Recovery, and Dany slides down the tile wall just outside the operating theater, adrenaline leaving her, finally, so exhausted she can’t see straight. Her lids slam shut, and she just breathes, in and out.

“Good work, Doctor Targaryen.” When she forces her tired eyes open she knows who she will find, and she’s unsurprised to see Tyrion Lannister standing there. He’s the head of her department, after all. “Some of your best.”

A hollow laugh escapes. “Thank you for the compliment.” It was good work. She knows that. She gave Jon her very best, and this time, it paid off, and for that much she is grateful. She can do a lot, but she isn’t a God, and sometimes it’s out of her hands. She stands, painfully, and stretches, groaning as her back pops. “Anyone in the waiting room?”

Tyrion nods, but looks concerned as he gives her a once-over. “I can update them, if you like. Your shift was up an hour ago. Go home, get some rest.”

Dany waves him off, with a weary smile. She thinks she knows who will be out there, and more importantly, she likes to savor the times she can enter that room and deliver good news, not bad. “I’ll take care of it. Thanks, though.”

She pulls off the cap on her head, and stops in the staff bathroom, washing her hands and readjusting the bun she’s had her hair trapped in for so long that her scalp prickles and tingles. Satisfied that she is presentable, she makes her way to the waiting room.

Captain Davos Seaworth is on his feet the minute she pushes through the door, fretting like a mother hen, his eyes red-rimmed and frightened. And, as she expected, Grey is there as well. The occupant she’d hadn’t anticipated is Missy, sitting beside Jon’s partner on the uncomfortable couch, each wearing matching, worried expressions.

“Well?” The Captain’s voice is hoarse, and scared. “How is he?”

She smiles, and sees him visibly sag in relief, before she even answers. “He’s stable.”

“OH! Thank the Gods!” Without warning, she is pulled into a hug, so tight she struggles to breathe, but she understands what he is feeling, so she pats a hand on the man’s back in comfort. When he pulls away, his kind eyes are wide, and joyful. “You saved him, didn’t you? It was you.”

“Yes.” She sees Grey hugging Missy tightly, from the corner of her eye, and then he is before her, his chin trembling.

“Thank you.” He takes one of her hands in both of his. “Thank you, Doctor.”

She shakes her head, clearing her throat lightly. “Just doing my job, Detective.”

When Jon’s partner lets out a watery laugh, she’s confused, trying to figure out what was so funny as he exchanges a look with his boss.

“Two peas in a pod,” Captain Seaworth says to Grey, his eyes darting back to Dany every few seconds. “What did I tell you?” She is tired, and frustrated, and absolutely unclear on what is so very amusing, and the Captain seems to pick up on it. “Every time someone thanks Jon, he says the same thing. ‘Just doing my job.’” 

“I see.” She pinches the bridge of her nose, blowing out a breath. “Well, it’s the truth.”

Grey nods, sagely, wrapping an arm around Missy. “So it is. Can we see him?”

Dany shakes her head. “Not just yet. When he wakes up, I’ll come fetch you, if you want to stick around.”

Both men nod, but Missy frowns, and extricates herself from Grey to wrap Dany in a warm hug. “You need to get some sleep, sweetie. You had a long night.” The words are whispered into her hair, and Dany knows it’s likely the other two didn’t hear. It wouldn’t really matter if they did, but still, it’s very personal, what is welling inside her. She can’t go home, not yet.

“I will. Once he wakes up.” Dany leans back, still hugging her friend, and waits until Missy sighs in resignation.

“Fine. You’re so stubborn.”

Dany looks at all of them, in turn, ready to go back through those doors, to see how he is. She wants to be there, when he wakes up. She wants to be the first thing he sees. She doesn’t want him to be alone. “If you’ll excuse me.”

She doesn’t wait for a response. She pushes through the doors, her shoes squeaking against the floor, down the hall, past the nurses station. She doesn’t see anything but the path ahead, and with each step she takes it’s like she can breathe again, can let herself believe what she just said in that waiting room.

He’s okay. He’s going to be okay. She repeats it, over and over, like a mantra.

His vitals are being checked when she finally rounds the corner and sees the wide open room, cordoned off around each bed with curtains. He’s the only patient in there, and when the nurse spies her, he finishes writing quickly, hurrying over.

“Looks good, Doc.” Renly, that’s his name, she remembers, and she manages a quick smile before reaching to take the charts from his hand. 

“I’m gonna sit with him for a bit, ‘til he wakes up. Could you give us some privacy?”

She doesn’t know what he sees, when he looks at her. Maybe nothing. Maybe she isn’t betraying herself that way, maybe it’s the hard edge to her otherwise normally cordial voice. But whatever it is, he gets it, and he quickly smothers his knowing smile. “Sure thing, Doc. You keep and eye on him, I’m gonna grab a coffee. Be back in thirty?”

Dany checks her watch. Jon should come around in ten minutes or so. “Take your time.”

And then they are alone, and she feels like her knees are going to give out on her. She grabs a rolling chair from the desk and leans on it, pushing it over to his bedside, and sits. Before, when she’d been working on him, determined to put him back together, allowing no other outcome for herself but to keep him alive, and with her, she hadn’t been able to look at him. Not truly. She couldn’t let herself see his face, not if she wanted to stay focused.

But now, she can, and so she does. She scoots closer, chair creaking, starting at the top of his head, and working her way down. He is paler than he normally is, and his hair is an absolute mess. But it’s him, Jon Snow, in the flesh. It doesn’t seem real, to be this close. Now, she can hear each breath, but it isn’t through her phone. It’s in stereo, surrounding her, and she leans in, closer, watching his chest rise and fall.

It’s a beautiful sight. She’s nearing the edge, wrung out, but she knows she won’t be satisfied until she sees his gray eyes, up close. Will they be as dark as she’s always thought? She resists the temptation to touch her fingertips to his bearded jaw, but she can’t stop herself from settling for a less-invasive touch.

Gently, she slides her right hand into his left, through the bedrail, and leans on the hard plastic. She’s so tired, so overwhelmed with the rollercoaster of emotions she’s felt in the last 12 hours that she can only sit, silent, and let herself feel how natural his warm, large hand feels against hers. It’s such a simple thing, but it’s everything, and she can’t believe she’s gone so long without this. It’s perfect, his touch. She resolves, she lets her eyes stray to his face, that she’s done being afraid of this. She rests her forehead on the railing, and closes her eyes.

She’s close to dozing off, lulled into a soft, dream-like peace by the steady beeping of his pulse, when she feels it.

Jon Snow squeezes her hand.

Dany looks at where her hand rests in his, just as she feels it, again. He squeezes, harder, and her face contorts, but she is not going to cry, not now. She wants to, because finally, finally that knotted ball of fear in her chest is unravelling, but she will not. She refuses. She straightens, and lifts her head, and there he is. Awake.

Staring right at her.

His eyes remind her of iron. He blinks, once, then again, lips parting and closing as though he cannot quite work out what he wants to say. He holds her hand tighter and she feels his thumb slip against her skin, beginning to rub circles on the back of her hand.

“Doctor,” he whispers.

“Detective.” Her lips are trembling but she smiles, anyway, and he continues the motion of his thumb, slow, steady circles that, with each pass, make it easier for her to breathe.

He looks away, finally, his head shifting on the pillow as he takes in their surroundings, sees the monitors, and the IV line trailing along the bed, and when he finally returns to her his brow is knitted together in concentration.

“Well,” he says, slowly, “I’m not dead.”

It is easy to laugh, she realizes, even as her eyes well. “No,” she says, unable to hide the tremor in her voice. “You are not dead. Excellent deduction.” She rolls her tongue across her teeth, and tries her best to sound scolding, but she’s so relieved, so elated, that she doesn’t think she sounds at all convincing. “But you certainly cut it very close, Jon.”

Jon holds her eyes with his, and his thumb still strokes, and he shakes his head, just slightly, in a daze. “You saved my life.”

The words are there, on the tip of her tongue, the same she gave to his Captain and his partner, but Jon Snow is impossible to lie to. And this time, she knows, she wasn’t just doing her job. She’d had a million reasons for wanting to find herself here, in the recovery room, holding his hand, sharing his space, being so close she can see how thick and dark his lashes are. He’s so beautiful, and she’s been such a fool, spending so long in that fearful stasis.

She attempts to sound solemn, but it’s hard to keep the amusement from her voice. “Yes, I did. I’m afraid you owe me, Detective. Big time.”

He gives her a look that is so tender she wants nothing more than to climb up beside him on the hospital bed and hold him, but this isn’t the time, or the place. Later, she tells herself. “You’re right. Of course. It’s likely I’m going to have to devote my entire life now trying to get you elevated to sainthood. Maybe a key to the city?” His eyes widen and she knows he’s teasing, no matter how deadpan he tries to look. “I know. A statue? Oh, a shrine. Yes. Maybe something with a fountain?”

She rolls her eyes at him, but her fingertips rub along his wrist, feeling his pulse beating away. “I’m not sure I deserve all that.”

Jon tutts under his breath and raises their joined hands, and for a second he just stares at the image presented, her hand wrapped in his, their skin pressed tight. She wonders if he has longed for it as much as she has. She wonders if it feels as right to him as it does to her, as easy and natural as breathing.

When he looks back at her, she knows.

_Love comes in at the eyes._

Someone once told her that was where you could find another’s true feelings. She doesn’t even remember who said it. She’s never believed it, not until now, because no one, in her entire life, has looked at her the way Jon Snow is.

He loves her. They have never been in the same room together, until today, but Jon Snow loves her, and it is a humbling thing. 

“You do,” he whispers. “You definitely deserve that.” His eyes search her face, and he smiles. “And some sleep. You look terrible.”

She squeaks in outrage and tries to tug her hand from his, but he holds on, and kisses the back of her hand before releasing it.

He’s laughing, as much as he can, wincing even as he grins, and she stands on tired legs and crosses her arms over her chest. “That’s a terrible way to thank me.” 

“You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Dany grumbles, giving him a mocking glare. “That’s slightly better.” She checks her watch, and knows she needs to go, before she collapses into a heap in some corner or another.

Renly returns, then, coffee in hand, and does another check, preparing to move Jon to the room he’ll stay in for observation. She knows from the way Jon frowns that he’s going to be an awful, grumpy patient.

“Where’s he going?”

Renly checks his paperwork. “302.”

She turns back to Jon, and before she can stop herself she’s stroking along his face, enchanted at the way he turns his cheek further into her touch automatically. “There are some visitors here to see you, if you want?”

He knows who it is, already, that much is clear from his resigned sigh. “Better get it over with.” Then he swallows, hard, peering over towards Renly who is doing his level best to eavesdrop inconspicuously. “I still owe you a date, Doctor. It’s Thursday.”

Dany slides her thumb along his cheek bone, and impulsively leans down and delivers a gentle press of her lips to his forehead. When she moves back he’s staring at her with wide, wondrous eyes. “Yes, I know. You aren’t getting out of it that easy, Detective. I’ll be back, later.”

Renly winks at her on the way out, and despite the madness of the night, and crippling exhaustion that makes her sway on her feet, she is walking on air all the way home.

\------------

Dany sleeps like the dead until 3:00 p.m. The alarm on her phone jolts her awake, and she sits up, groaning when she realizes she’s still wearing her scrubs, rubbing her eyes to clear away the bleary sheen that clouds her vision.

Her mind is blank for a moment, still stuck in a sleepy haze, but then she remembers.

Jon.

She flexes her hand, conjuring up the sweet warmth of holding his, and plans what she will do next.

Dany is just heading into the bathroom, ready to scrub off the night and take her time getting ready for her return to the hospital, as a visitor, tonight, when she hears a loud knock at her door.

The peephole reveals who it is, and she worries that something must have happened, when she opens the door for Jon’s Captain.

“Is everything alright?” He had been stable when she’d left, talking, but what if he’d taken a turn for the worst and she’d slept right through it?

Captain Seaworth holds his hands up soothingly. “Everything is fine, Doctor. I’m here about Ghost.” She’s relieved, of course, but then her face falls as she looks over her shoulder, out of her windowed wall and into Jon’s, to find the big white dog sitting there, all alone.

“Oh, that poor thing.” She turns back, to find the man shifting on his feet, sheepishly. “Captain?”

He holds up his right hand, and displays a set of keys. “My wife’s allergic, or I’d bring him to my house for the next few days. Jon was wondering if--”

She snatches the keys from his hands before he can finish. “Of course,” she breathes, although she knows Drogon is going to be exceedingly pissed at her. “He can stay here until Jon’s discharged.” There is no way, absolutely no way she will leave Jon’s dog alone in that apartment. It’s just the way things are going to be. “Can you help me bring him over? I assume he’s got an enormous bag of food.”

Davos laughs, clearly pleased. “My pleasure.”

Together, they lug over the oversized bag of Iams Large Breed, and Ghost’s bowls, equally large, one for food and one for water. Then, she walks Ghost over, harnessed and leashed, amazed and delighted by how sweet and agreeable he is. She hopes that lasts once he meets her occasionally grumpy cat.

Davos escorts her back to her door, and she can feel his stare, the entire way. “Was there something else?”

“I can’t ever thank you enough for what you did.” She begins to make her usual argument, that it’s no more and no less than what she is trained to do, but he cuts her off. “Jon’s a gifted detective. Truly. I can’t tell how many cases he’s managed to crack, cases that seemed impossible.” His eyes are growing watery, and she can see he’s fighting for control. “He’s a good man, and he tries to carry everything on his shoulders, all by himself. Always has, since I’ve known him.”

She knows this. She knows the impossible standards he sets for himself, how he tortures himself when he doesn’t meet them, how he blames himself every time his best just isn’t enough. They’re a lot alike, that way.

“Just,” Davos pauses, his voice rough, “Be patient with him. His work is all he knows. Living, outside of that, doesn’t come so easily for him.” Then he peers at her, and nods slowly, as if he’s making his own deductions, now, just from what he sees on her face, in her eyes. “But I think you understand that.”

Dany licks her lips, nervously, not really keen to share something that feels very private. “I do.”

His face softens, and he lets out a sharp breath, looking around suddenly as if he had forgotten they were standing in her hallways, Jon’s big white dog between them. “I’d best be going. But thank you,” he says, backing away towards the elevator. “Just, thank you.”

She lets her hand stray down to Ghost’s head, slips her fingers against his soft fur, and smiles when the dog gives her hand a friendly lick. “You’re welcome.”

\-----------

Drogon, as she predicts, is not pleased.

He’s on top of his cat tree, alternating between looks of utter betrayal thrown her way and suspicious glares to the dog below.

Ghost, however, wins her heart within the first five minutes. He’s sweet, and quiet, and despite his size he seems to fit, perfectly. He inspects her apartment, every room, his nose to the ground, and then, with a heavy exhale, flops down onto the living room rug and circles up, falling asleep.

She realizes, with a start, that she’s lost an hour, the clock on the wall prompting her into motion.

“Behave,” she says to Drogon, in a firm voice, a finger pointed in his direction. “He doesn’t want any trouble.” Drogon looks skeptical, but begins to groom himself, and she decides it’s safe to leave them alone to go shower.

Twenty minutes later, wet hair in a towel, a terry robe cinched tight around her waist, she returns, and what she sees is so utterly adorable that she has to take a picture.

There is a mound of pitch-black fur, curled up against a sleeping Ghost.

“You’ll be fine, I see,” she whispers to the sleeping animals, then slips back into her bedroom.

She’d bought a new dress, nothing flashy, but nice date material, and she had very few of those in a wardrobe that mostly consisted of scrubs for work and casual clothes for everything else. But she’s not going to wear it to the hospital, so she settles for a soft, black cowl-necked sweater. It’s cashmere, and she fingers the material for a moment before she lays the top on her bed. She grabs a pair of jeans, a dark blue denim wash, and low-heeled black ankle boots.

Once assembled, she considers it, decides it’s a decent choice for a hospital room date with a man who nearly died less than a day ago, and turns to her dresser. Her hopes had been high that Jon Snow would be peeling off one of the lacy options now crowding her top drawer sometime later tonight, but she’s fine with taking a rain check. She’ll wear something new, anyway, because it will make her feel sexy, a secret thing that she will know even if he doesn’t.

Her hair takes longer, because she can’t remember the last time she wore it down, and it’s gotten past the middle of her back. She swears she’s going to go in for a trim the next time she finds the time, but for tonight she settles for blowing it out, then curling it into soft, silver waves that frame her face.

She looks in the mirror, really looks, and marvels at the woman she sees there. It’s not the hair that captivates her, though. She just wonders if she’s ever seen herself so genuinely happy, or at peace.

Dany dabs on tinted lip gloss, applies some mascara, just a little eye shadow; It’s only a bit more than what she normally wears. She doesn’t want to look like she’s trying too hard, and more importantly, she doesn’t think Jon would care. She thinks she could probably walk into his room in a black trash bag and he would tell her how beautiful she looks.

She grins at her reflection. “You’re ready.” And she is.

\-----------

Dany takes off her puffy coat in the hall outside Jon’s room, ignoring the raised eyebrows she receives at the nurse’s station when she requests an extra dinner tray for 302. She just waits, stoically, until she receives a ‘Yes, Doctor Targaryen’ and nods curtly.

Her hand hovers near his door, but she takes a few steadying breaths before she knocks, sharply. 

“No more needles, dammit,” is the gruff reply she receives, and it sets her off into a fit of giggles that last as she opens the door and walks into the room.

“Holy shit.” He sounds winded, sitting there on his bed, his chest bandaged, his hand aloft, gripping the remote to the television across from him. “Good evening, Doctor.” he glances down at himself, and wrinkles his nose, the frown he’d been wearing replaced by a dazzled smile that makes her toes curl in her boots. “I think I’m a bit underdressed.”

She laughs and walks to the end of his bed, grabbing his chart and reviewing it. He’s watching her, tracking her every move, and the predatory look in his eyes fills her with a very particular sort of heat. “How are you feeling, Detective?”

He doesn’t look away, lets his eyes travel her body with a hungry promise that is very much at odds with his current condition. “Top notch. Never felt better.” Their eyes lock, and hold. “Your hair is down.”

“Brilliant observation.” She smirks at him and rounds the bed, dragging a chair close and plopping down, then cocking her head at him curiously. “What else?”

“It’s really unfair how amazing you look.” He studies the folds of the soft black sweater, then he pauses, and beams at her. “You’ve got Ghost at your place.”

She glances down and sees the proof, a long white hair that has somehow found it’s way to her shoulder, and plucks at it, pulling it free. “Thank you, and yes.” She sighs heavily, and shakes her head in pretended sadness. “I regret to inform you that he’s mine, now. I will not be returning him. He’s far too sweet.”

Jon reaches out and claims her hand in his, and just like before, he begins rubbing his thumb against the back in small, slow circles. But unlike before, when her nerves were raw and he was just barely free from surgery, it’s not just relief that she feels now. Something is building, now, and she shifts in her seat. It’s worrying, how much she wants him, how easy it seems to be for him to make the desire she’s kept dormant flame to life.

“Get back to me when he takes a massive shit in your hall.” He says it dryly and squeezes her hand. “I’m sure that will be very sweet.”

The door opens, before she can defend Ghost’s honor, and a nurse she recognizes walks in.

“Doctor!” Doreah looks between Dany and Jon, with a look of shrewd interest that Dany knows will have this little nugget of gossip all over the hospital within 24 hours. She points to the extra tray on the cart she’s pushed in. “This must be for you.”

“It is,” Dany acknowledges and pulls her hand from Jon’s, winking at him so he doesn’t think she’s pulling away. “Hard to manage a dinner date when only one of us is eating.” She grabs the handle of the cart and pushes it further into the room while Doreah just stands there, gaping, as though she can’t quite believe what she’s heard. “I’ll take it from here.”

Doreah purses her lips and takes another look between them both, then shrugs. “Enjoy your date.” She’s pulling the door open when she peeks back over her shoulder at Dany, and gives her a discrete thumbs-up.

Smothering a giggle, Dany gets to work, fetching the rolling tray that will fit against his bed, and placing his tray in front of him. Her laugh finally escapes when he scowls down at it, clearly unhappy at the sight of the Salisbury steak and hard roll, the scoop of lumpy potatoes and the glass of juice that’s covered with a piece of plastic wrap. “Well,” he grumps, and runs his finger along the little plastic cup full of red jello, topped with a paltry spray of whipped cream, “at least there’s dessert.”

Dany returns to her seat with her tray, and grins. “Where were you planning on taking me? If you hadn’t gotten stabbed seven times, I mean?”

He unwraps his plastic knife and fork carefully, looking morose. “Burger place two blocks over. It’s the best.” He half-heartedly saws away at the slice of meat covered in brown gravy, lifting it with his fork and watching the brown liquid drip from it. “Anything but this, really. This is disgusting.” He blows out a breath and glances up. “You look beautiful. Did I already say that? I can’t remember.” He is almost pouting and it’s disturbingly endearing, makes the want to gather him up and hold him close even harder to fight. “These pain meds make me fucking loopy.”

There is a foolish, indescribable warmth inside her, and she’s never felt like this before, not about anyone. She looks down shyly, scraping her fork along her mashed potatoes. “I think you said ‘amazing’, earlier, but your point stands. Thank you.” She presses her lips together tight, so that she doesn’t give him the lovesick smile she can feel building. “And I love burgers, for the record.”

They eat in companionable silence, for a while, and it’s like they’re back at home, in their apartments. It’s familiar, and easy, but it’s lightyears better, because he’s there, so much closer than he’s ever been, and he’s alive, and she doesn’t think she could ask for more from the universe than this.

When they finish, she gathers their trays and puts them back on the cart, and teeters on the edge of indecision. She knows what she wants to do, as she stands there, surveying the picture he presents, there in his bed. When he looks at her, there is something vulnerable there, and she knows he wants what she wants, but he isn’t sure if he should ask for it.

Fuck it, she thinks, and walks back to the bed, shoving her chair out of the way and lowering the bed rail on his right side. It was his left that sustained all the damage, and she thinks if she is careful, and she doesn’t jostle him too much, this will be alright.

He’s already shifting over when she gets the rail all the way down, lifting his arm so she can claim the foot of bed he’s cleared for her. His arm goes around her shoulders as she curls up against him, and she shivers, because it was so close, so terribly close. He was almost gone, but he is here, and nothing has ever felt as right as his warm, solid strength against her. She nestles her head at the crook of his neck and together, in tandem, they both let out slow, satisfied breath.

“This is nice,” he whispers into her hair. “You fit.”

Carefully, she rests her right palm against his chest, on top of the white gauze pads that have been affixed to his skin. His heart beats against it, steady, reliable, and her eyes grow hot and damp. “Yes," she agrees quietly. "Now, rate you pain on a scale from one to ten.”

He laughs, sharply, then groans and tenses, and he is sore, of course he is. He’s going to be very sore, in the days to come, and she knows without asking that he’s going to hate being cooped up here, but she’s going to require it, at least a week, if not more. “Oh, I don’t know. Six? It’s hard to tell. You’re distracting me.” She hears him inhale deeply. “You smell like sugar cookies.”

Outside the window of his room, the sun has set, and darkness has taken over. She’ll have to leave soon, go take Ghost on a walk before she goes to bed, make sure the truce he and Drogon had seemed to reach was a lasting one, but she wants to savor this, just for a bit longer.

“It’s my shampoo,” she whispers. “It smells like vanilla.”

His hand begins to slip and slide up and down her arm, over the fabric of her sweater. “How are you so soft?” He lets out a pitiful whine. “I have to confess, I was very much hoping I’d end up in bed with you at some point tonight, but not like this.” He tenses again, but she doesn’t think it’s pain. He thinks he’s said too much, and it’s entirely possible the cocktail of medications he is on have loosened his tongue.

Her hand moves, travels up, and up, along his neck, to cup his jaw. The bristles of the hair there tickle and scratch, and she smiles. She tips her head up, as he looks down, and their eyes catch and hold. “Oh yes,” she whispers, “I had plans for you as well, Detective.” She gazes up at him through her lashes, then bats them playfully. “You should see what I have on under this sweater.”

“Oh. My. God.” He looks so pained that she’s worried he’s actually hurt, but then she feels his chest shaking, even though his expression shifts to one of a man in the midst of unbelievable torture. His left hand fumbles and finds the call button dangling from his side of the bed. “I’m going to buzz them, right now, and tell them Doctor Daenerys Targaryen is in here torturing a patient.” He waves it warningly as she sits up, snickering. “I’ll do it, Doc. I will.” 

She leaps up and races around the bed, snatching the small panel from his hand. “Absolutely not.” She checks her watch and sighs. “I should go. My new houseguest is going to need a visit to the great outdoors, and you’re going to be getting something that’s going to make you sleepy, very soon.”

As if on cue, Doreah knocks, and she’s doing her level best not to smile as she peeks around the corner. “Everyone decent?”

“Oh, please,” Dany scoffs, even as Jon points a sullen finger her direction.

“Not her, Nurse. She is a wicked, wicked woman.”

Dany’s mouth falls open, just for a second, then she glares at him playfully. “You traitor.”

Doreah just chuckles and moves to where several bags are hanging from the IV cart. She removes an empty and replaces it, hooking it into his line. “Well, Detective, this ought to have you feeling right as rain in just a few minutes.” With a nod to them both, she makes quick work of marking his chart, and leaves with the dinner cart.

Jon fumbles with the thin white blanket on his lap for a moment, then gives her a sheepish, unsure, wobbly smile. “Will you stay with me? ‘Til I fall asleep? I have another confession, Doc. I hate hospitals.”

Her hands are trembling at her sides, itching to touch him, and there is a lump in her throat the size of the Maidenvault. She nods, and climbs back in, next to him, but this time his arms remain at his sides, and his head rests on her shoulder. She runs her fingers through his hair, over and over, and kisses his temple softly.

“Will you come see me tomorrow?” He already sounds sleepy, his voice soft and fuzzy. “If you get a chance?’

“Yes.” She scratches gently at his scalp with her nails and he moans, low and raspy, and shifts further into her touch.

“Will you bring my toothbrush from my apartment?” 

She laughs, quietly, wondering if she’ll be able to be at his place, alone, and resist the urge to snoop. Not much, just a little. “Yes.”

“Good.” He shifts again, and she palms the nape of his neck and looks down. His eyes are dark, and open, and she knows what she sees there, knows he can see it clearly in hers. Love. The real kind, the kind that grows when you know someone deeply, intimately, when you’ve spent months talking and laughing and sharing your darkest moments, together. “I really want to kiss you,” he whispers, and she can see he’s fighting to keep his eyes open, “but not when it tastes like something died in my mouth.”

This time she kisses his forehead, and his eyes finally slide closed, and they don’t open again. Once his breathing is slow, and steady, she slips away, taking one last look over her shoulder at him before she pulls on her coat.

She wants to kiss him, too. Desperately. But now it isn’t some vague, shapeless desire. She’s going to, and soon. She’s sure of it.

It’s the best first date she thinks she’s ever had.


	3. Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The natural progression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, guys. Crazy couple of days, yeah? I hope you enjoy our final installment!

* * *

Jon Snow is sequestered in the hospital for two weeks. He complains incessantly, declares she’s made him her prisoner, though she’s already handed his case off to one of the other doctors.

It’s for the best, she knows. Especially since she has the nasty, entirely unprofessional habit of making out with him in his bed. But it can’t be helped, and she knows this, too, because he is an amazing kisser, even for a man recovering from rather grievous injuries.

If his hand in hers had been a sweet discovery, and his body against her sublime, then his mouth is a revelation. Every day, whether she’s scheduled to work or she’s off, she finds her way to 302, and every day he gives her more, each gentle thrust of his tongue against her, each suckling pull of his lips on hers, each enticing nip of his teeth showing her how very gifted Jon Snow’s mouth is.

And when she leaves him, she is aching and wanting, and he knows it, almost smug when she bids him farewell, his eyes full of dark, wanton promise.

She stands in his apartment, the second time she’s stepped foot in here without Jon present, and the first time she’s been here alone.

In two weeks she has learned the smell of him, has memorized the scent of Jon Snow’s skin. But here it is magnified, that smell that means _Jon_ , and amplified by other smells. She stops in his living area, the layout so much like her own, but where she has walls of muted eggshell his are stark white, save for an accent wall of dark blue behind his black leather sofa.

Sandalwood and vetiver, that’s what she smells, and she smiles, her finger tips trailing along the supple fabric. Jon is not here but she can almost feel him, a silent spectre that watches her every move. She glances across to her own apartment, curious, and spies Ghost sitting there, by the window, eyes trained on her.

Dany gives herself a mental shake and clears her throat, glancing around the apartment, embarrassed. She needs to get on with things. She walks down the short, narrow hallway that leads to his bedroom, before she loses herself in trying to discover each piece of him that is here, strewn about, waiting to be unearthed.

She doesn’t need to do that. She already knows him.

But still, she pauses at the threshold to his bedroom, all the same. It is neat, and orderly, save for the discarded black pajama pants on the floor beside the bed. This room is much like the others, spartan in decor. His dresser is a dark, gleaming walnut. She steps closer, because it is a beautiful peace, her hand drifting up to flick on the overhead lights, lips parting as she inspects the carved adornments that decorate the drawer fronts.

Wolves. It’s covered in wolves, a small, intricate pattern that varies as she trails her eyes along it, wolves running and playing and leaping. Each drawer is similar, but each image is slightly different. She smiles, wistfully, and the pad of her index finger slides against a small wolf, in profile, head back, howling.

Even if she did not know, by Jon’s own confession, that his mother had been a Stark, it would be plain from this piece, and the framed photo above it. There is a small brass plaque along the dark wooden frame, beneath the gathering of stoic, solemn-faced people gathered together in the photograph, frozen in time. ‘House Stark’ it reads, and the date is twenty-two years ago. Jon is eleven here, she deduces quickly, and she lets out a merry burst of laughter when she finds him, on the edge of the group, his perpetual brooding frown on full display.

But then, it’s not surprising. Dany knows how he came to live with his Uncle at Winterfell, knows of his mother’s addictions, how she had finally succumbed to them and sent her only child away. She knows his father, a Dornishman, had died not long after his birth, leaving his young wife to raise Jon, alone. She knows that Lyanna Stark never quite recovered from this loss.

She knows his life was rarely happy, but anyone might’ve drawn that conclusion, if they’d happened upon this picture.

She knows, of course, because Jon has told her this, and more. More than once he has suggested, in a voice that is equal parts awed and fearful, that she knows more of him than anyone else in the entire world.

She sucks in a breath and turns away, before that look of desolate loneliness on a younger Jon’s face makes her eyes any more damp than they already are.

His bed is the largest thing in the room, king-sized, that he has daringly shoved into the relatively small space. It dominates the room, with a walnut headboard that matches his dresser, the wolf carvings returning and dancing down each wooden slat. It is unmade, remaining in the state he left it in, two weeks ago, when he rose to prepare for his shift, not knowing his return would be delayed.

Dany moves without thinking, hands drawing up the navy cotton sheets, smoothing them up to the head of the bed, arranging his pillows neatly. The thick gray comforter is next, downy and full, and she sighs in satisfaction as she surveys the results. Missy has always poked fun at her for the way she cannot abide an unmade bed, and scratching that particular itch merges and couples itself to the very real notion that it is an intimate act, to be here, in his space, in the room he is the most vulnerable in.

Again, she prompts herself to keep moving, and she crosses the carpeted floor to the small closet, eyes scanning for the item he’s told her she’ll find there, so she can do what she came to do.

The black duffel is just where he’d said it would be; It sits, empty, up on the shelf to her right. She stretches and just manages to snag a finger on the strap, and pulls it down, smirking at the row of dress shirts to her right, almost all the same bright white. A rack of ties sits in the middle, and to her left is his array of dark suit coats and slacks.

It is truly astounding, at times, how much they are alike. There is a small section of casual clothing, polo shirts and jeans and a few belts in variants of brown and black. His shoes are neatly lining the wall, the ratio remaining the same. The shoes he wears to work are closer to the front, a few interchangeable pairs in dark leather, with a random assortment of running shoes and slip-ons and a lone pair of ratty slippers.

She imagines he would be nonplussed if he were to gaze into her closet and find the story of her priorities there in hanger after hanger of scrubs, her casual clothes shoved into the back, with a few dresses, recently added, hanging even further, tags still on.

Dany slips the strap of the duffel over her shoulder, after bending down to grab a pair of running shoes she’s seen him wear on more than one occasion. Shoving them into the bag, she returns to his dresser, pulling open the top drawer, and mentally checking off the list as she pulls each item he’s requested. Socks are added, and underwear as well, and she has suspected he is a boxer-brief sort of man, but the confirmation is still nice. She grins wickedly as she slips them into his bag, picturing the way the dark, snug material would hug his body, knowing that, in all likelihood, she will see him in something similar before long.

She grabs a t-shirt, and a long-sleeved, waffle-weave henley, finishing off with a pair of black athletic pants and arranging them all in an orderly fashion inside the bag. She counts off on her fingers, double-checking that she’s gotten everything he’ll need for discharge the next day, when she sees it.

Sandwiched between the wall of glass covered in heavy, thick blackout curtains and his bed is a small nightstand. There is a brass lamp with a white shade, an alarm clock declaring that it is 2:30 p.m. in garish red, and beside it, the corner tucked just under the edge of the black plastic of the clock, is the item that has ensnared her.

It’s a manila file folder, unremarkable on it’s own, save that it is thick and bulky, the curling metal binding of a spiral notebook jutting out past the edge. She steps closer, and then she laughs, the sound filling the room, reverberating off the walls, and she knows she should not do this, knows that this is probably not meant for her eyes, but when she reads the words scrawled across the top in black marker she knows she’s going to do it anyway.

Originally, he had written ‘Mystery Neighbor’ across the front, but that has been crossed out, and in even larger print, he has renamed this file ‘The Amazing Doctor Dany’. She sits on his bed, her finger following each line of each word, gnawing on her lip. She isn’t proud of her lack of willpower, but she consoles herself with the sure knowledge that, if their roles were reversed, he would probably have already been through the contents in their entirety.

She opens the folder, pulling the notebook out and setting it aside, and fans out the stack of printer paper that rests underneath. It’s nothing she didn’t already know, because it’s as she’d already told him: once she knew his profession she fully anticipated he would do his homework. She spies a newspaper article from her parents’ car accident, a graduation announcement from the University of Pentos Medical School, her name highlighted in the list of graduates. There are random little scraps of her life here, the public sort, the kind any decent internet search would turn up. There is even a screenshot of her brother Viserys, clearly his mugshot, coupled with his rap sheet. Armed Robbery as a lifestyle choice had not been kind to Vis, but life in general hadn’t either. They had diverged on their paths, and his had landed him serving 20 to life in Lys.

Dany turns back to the notebook, and flips it open, and realizes what she is staring at. Line after line of precise, careful writing fill the pages as she thumbs briefly through them, marked with dates here and there.

One catches her eye that makes her grin turn sheepish:

  * _Doctor Dany continues to inflict the most wonderful torture on me. As a rule I have always found yoga to be silly, but Gods be good that woman is flexible. I reckon we’re playing a game of chicken now, because I know she knows I’m here, pretending to work, trying my best not to gape at her like an absolute pervert. One of us will have to make a move, eventually, and it is absolutely gutting that I have no idea who it will be._



She snickers and flips through a few more pages.

  * _It is growing entirely too hard to make it through my day (or night) without the sound of her voice in my ear. It’s like I can hear her, even when I’m not there, sitting across from her, telling her all these things I don’t think I could bear to tell anyone else. It’s like an addiction, the sweetest one conceivable, but it is shot through with overwhelming danger. Maybe that’s why I cannot stop myself from calling, and why I cannot bring myself to stop being such a craven and just ask her out, break this pattern and start a new one. I’ll ruin it, I know I will, and I don’t know if I can bear things without her. It’s not worth the risk, asshole._



Dany forces herself to go further, her hand shaking as she turns the pages, paper rustling under her fingers. Her heart is hammering as she reads an entry near the end, and she knows when he likely wrote it, can read the undeniable truth that has been swirling inside her in each and every word.

\- _Grey continues to think I am, as he puts it, a ‘monumental idiot’. An easy conclusion for a man who has found himself in love, I think, an easy attack to mount because he’s braver than me, by far. But Grey does not understand. Scratch that. Maybe he does, to some degree. When I ask him how he can be so sure, so consumed by the ‘rightness’ of all things Missy, it’s all cocky smiles. ‘You just know, Jon. Sometimes, you just know.’ I know that is true. I have known it since the morning I walked into my apartment, absolutely fucking exhausted, and saw her standing there. It was like a punch in the gut. Because I knew. But I also know that I am good at precisely one thing, and that is my job. I am utter shit at the rest. She deserves more than that, I think. Someone like Dany deserves a man who can give her all of himself, and I don’t know that there is anything left of me to give. But I want to, for fuck’s sake. And that’s the terrifying part. I’ve never wanted this before, but I can’t think about anything else._

She cannot stop the tear that slips down her cheek, that falls onto Jon’s writing and wets the paper in a perfect, fat splotch. She curses, and frantically tries to wipe it away, but that only makes things worse. He will know, the next time he looks at this, that she has seen it.

Dany closes the notebook, guilt coursing through her, but below that, below the shame that burned in her cheeks, there was a river running, the current tugging at her, dragging her along, helpless to resist. He has managed to put into words that indefinable thing that has always welled within her, from that first moment, when she’d been mindless to the milk tipping from her cereal bowl, oblivious to everything, in a heartbeat, but the undeniable pull of him.

Grey is right, and so is Jon. Sometimes, you just know, and she suspects it is that part of her, the part she has tried so hard to silence, the part she has identified as foolish and foolhardy and lovesick beyond measure. He is it, for her. It is why she has let this run as long as it has.

They belong to each other. It is not something that can be analyzed or dissected or even understood, really. But it is true and it is there and it cannot be conquered or contained. It has grown well beyond her control and she has no choice anymore. She has to jump, head-first, and pray that she lands.

She sniffs, and swipes at her cheeks, and places the folder back where it was. She stands and straightens her sweater, and fishes his keys from the front pocket of her jeans, grabbing for his bag, suddenly in a hurry to see him again, to lace their fingers together, to fit together the way she wants to.

Dany decides it’s time to jump, and at least she knows she will not jump alone.

\-----------

Jon is idly flipping through channels when she arrives at his room. He has been restless, unused to so little activity, and in the last week he has tried to pass the time with files that Davos sends him to look over, active cases that his Captain wants him to review. They only lasted him three days, and so now he is bored, and she thrills at the way his eyes light up when he sees her push through the door.

“Thank the Gods,” he murmurs, and drops the remote, leaning against the raised back of the bed and extending a hand to her, beckoning her closer. “I thought I was going to die of boredom.”

She scowls as best she can, leaving his bag in the ugly upholstered chair tucked beside his bed, and claims her usual spot, there against his side. His chest is bare and she rests her cheek against the bare skin of his shoulder for a moment, pressing a kiss there before she meets his eyes again. “Should I remind you how unbearably rude it is to joke about dying with the person that saved your life?”

He holds her tighter, kissing her temple, then her cheek, then the corner of her lips. “Hmmm, guess I forgot.” Jon pulls back to study her, then glances at his duffel, then back at her. Then his eyes widen, and grow shrewd, and he gives her a knowing smile. “Somebody’s been snooping,” he says in a sing-song voice, tapping a finger on the end of her nose.

Sometimes she is amazed at how he makes these deductive leaps, but right now she thinks she’s being sucked into a pit of quicksand, endlessly embarrassed and knowing he’s already confirmed his assumption by the way her face grows hot with shame.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says, with absolutely no conviction at all. He snorts and kisses her fully, and gentle press of his lips against hers that devolves into a heady exploration of his tongue against hers, tasting her teeth, slipping against her lips.

When he pulls back he seems to almost glow with amused affection. “I knew you would. Don’t feel bad.” He shifts back so that his back is flush with the bed against, his chest shaking with silent laughter as she buries her face in his neck. “I absolutely would have.”

His bandages are gone, and she studies the healing skin on his chest. The new scars are still red, but one day they will be pink, when this is long behind them, when they are little more than a reminder and not still fresh and angry. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop,” he chides gently, and switches the channel to a random movie. “It’s better this way. And I realized you’d find it last night, after you left, when I asked you to get my things. It’s easier.” He takes a quick breath, a swift inhale and exhale. “And it’s nothing you didn’t already know.”

Dany sits up, and slips from beneath his arm. She wants to be closer, she needs to be, needs him to know that he is not alone, in any of it, that she is there, with him shoulder to shoulder, in whatever this is between them. She gingerly straddles his blanket-covered lap, lifting a brow slyly as he watches her with open delight.

“You’re right,” she whispers, as she wades into new territory, mindful that his chest is still healing, muscles still struggling to knit back together, and lets her hands rest lightly on his shoulders. “It’s nothing I didn’t already know. Nothing I didn’t already feel.” She leans closer, and brushes her nose against his, near enough to feel his breath puff out against her lips. “Sometimes,” she says carefully, “You just know.” She retreats only far enough to watch his face, as he processes her words, as he nods in agreement, eyes full of tenderness even as they heat at the new sensation of her perched atop him.

His hands are hot even through her jeans, and they land and hold at her hips, before pulling her closer, so that she is flush against him. One thumb lodges itself in her waistband, seeking her skin, and she knows he feels the tremor that courses through her. His pupils grow fat and black, swallowing the iron gray almost completely, and she tries to seem unaffected, though her breathing begins to accelerate.

“I seem to recall being told, quite emphatically, that there would be absolutely no sexual activity in this hospital bed. Who was it that told me that? I forget.” His smile is sinful, his thumb stroking the silken skin of her hip, what he can reach, making contact with the lacy band of her underwear and growing decidedly more devilish.

Dany frowned, fighting the urge to rock her hips. She hasn’t changed her mind; this narrow hospital bed is not where she wants to have him the first time, but she just needs him, right now, needs that physical confirmation that she is not alone, heart in hand. “Doctor’s orders,” she quips, and then brushes her lips against his, softly, feather-light. He is having none of that, his mouth claiming hers quickly, tongue spearing between her lips, devouring her as one hand climbs up her spine to sift through her hair and cup the back of her head. His other remains at her hip, his fingers now searching as well, trying to find and occupying any spare skin he can find.

She moans into his mouth, happy to surrender, briefly, to the hunger that he feeds her, that she returns with equal ardor. She uses her arms to keep herself from falling completely onto his chest, but when she tears her lips from his to suckle the skin just below his ear and nip along the column of the throat he lets out a loud, lusty groan.

A knock sounds, and feels a rush of panic, heart fluttering as she tries to scramble off of him. She fails, because now two people enter, strangers, but as she tries to extricate herself from Jon’s body she cannot help but think the stern, stoic man in the door looks familiar.

“Jon.” He nods coolly towards Dany, who stands awkwardly now besides Jon’s bed. “Miss. Hope we aren’t interrupting anything.”

“You were, obviously.” Jon sounds tense, terse, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as he looks between the man and the slim, petite young woman with hair as dark as his own that lingers in the shadows of the doorway. “What are you doing here?”

It hits her, suddenly, who this man is. There is a resemblance, in all three Northern faces, and she has just seen this man’s face in particular, in a photograph in Jon’s apartment, though it has been lined with time since it was taken.

“Your Captain called us.” He grunts and jerks a thumb back towards the young woman, who has shifted her focus from Jon to Dany.

Arya, she realizes. The only one of the Stark cousins he can bear. The only one that Catelyn Stark, the wife of the man currently trying to cow Jon with his stare, hadn’t managed to sour on Jon.

Jon, for his part, is completely unruffled, and he raises his brows expectantly towards his Uncle. “And? With all due respect, Ned, I’ve been here two weeks.” He scoffs, loudly, and as Dany looks back towards their guests she feels him take her hand. 

His Uncle keeps talking, clearly oblivious to Jon’s lack of excitement at his arrival. “Davos said you’d been stabbed. Seven times. Bloody hells, Jon.” The man begins to pace, wringing his hands together. “You should come back to Winterfell. Still a spot for you at the department, and Robb’s the D.A., now. It’s safer--”

Dany is watching the man closely, but as he speaks Arya, still silent, shakes her head and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Dad, stop. It’s not like you can’t get stabbed in the North, for fuck’s sake.” She pushes past her father, and rounds Jon’s bed, giving Jon a half smile and eyeing the wounds on his chest. “That actually looks pretty bad-ass.”

Finally, Jon’s face softens, and his gaze ticks to Dany, as he squeezes her fingers meaningfully. “Doctor Dany does excellent work.” On habit, Dany ducks her head, chuckling under her breath, but she glances back up when she hears Jon’s cousin’s sharp intake of breath.

“So you’re Doctor Dany. I’ve heard loads about you.” Jon shoves lightly at Arya’s arm in chiding, but that doesn’t stop the young woman from pursing her lips meaningfully. “Loads.”

“Shut it, Arya.” The tips of his ears are turning pink.

“Well, I haven’t heard a bloody thing about her.” Ned Stark sounds gruff and irritated behind her, and he moves to stand beside Arya, scowling at Jon and Dany in turn. He settles on Dany, eyes narrowing. “Is this how you treat all your patients, Doctor?” Dany knows what he’s referring to; the way she’d been draped across him when they’d entered the room.

But it’s Jon who responds, the warning in his voice clear. “Our relationship predates my little run-in with the pointy end of a knife, Uncle.”

Dany bites at the inside of her cheek to keep the giddy smile from stealing across her face, when he says ‘relationship’. Not that they aren’t engaged in one, of course they are, but it’s just another of the unspoken things between them, things that are just known.

She levels a hard look at Ned Stark. “That’s right. We’ve been seeing each other for, what is it now, Jon, seven months?” This is technically true. For quite some time that’s all they’ve done, strictly speaking: see each other.

Jon grins and nods. “Roundabouts.” Then his smile fades and he looks to his Uncle. “Besides, Doctor Targaryen is not my doctor, currently. But she’s the one who put me back together.”

They exchange a look, then, eyes finding each other automatically, and it isn’t hard to discern that Jon isn’t just talking about those seven healing scars. She gives him a soft smile, and slides her pinky along his, fingers still linked.

When she is finally able to look away, when silence has fallen thick and heavy in the room, she glances up, seeing the way Jon’s uncle is studying them thoughtfully. “I see,” he says finally, voice flat and defeated. “So you won’t be coming back North anytime soon, I gather.”

“Brilliant deduction, Ned.” Jon sounds caustic, yes, but Dany can hear the thread of hurt that lies below. “I’m needed here, I’m afraid.”

Ned Stark’s jaw works, and he sighs, his chest giving a heavy rise and fall under his expensive winter coat. He checks his watch, a gleaming gold thing, that reminds her of something Rhaegar might wear. In fact, there is much about this Ned Stark that reminds her of Rhaegar, much about her own upbringing that reminds her of Jon’s. She knows, for instance, that much like her older brother, Ned Stark was indifferent, at best, to Jon’s raising after his mother dumped him off with her brother. And she knows how that can sting, how it can add fuel to the fire of that desperate need to prove oneself, no matter the personal cost.

Ned Stark clears his throat. “Aye,” he finally rasps. “Well, I’m glad you’re alright.” He shifts on his feet, and checks his watch again. “Nice to meet you,” he says off-handedly to Dany, then leaves, the three remaining in the room watching him with wide eyes.

Arya is the first to speak, rolling her eyes in the direction her father had departed. “Well, that was very touching,” she says dryly, and cracks a smile at Jon. “I am glad you’re still breathing, you shit head.” She pretends to be stern and thumps him against his shoulder, just above where the first scar begins. “Try not to turn yourself into a pin cushion again, I’ve got a major exam coming up and I don’t need the stress.”

Jon is much more relaxed around his cousin, and it makes her happy, the way his lips twitch even as he answers gravely. “Can’t make any promises. But I can try to wait ‘til you break for the semester, I guess.” Arya laughs and leans down, hugging Jon with one arm, her face turning slightly sad as she straightens.

“You can always come visit. If you get some time off.” She gives Dany a knowing, sidelong look. “But I’m guessing odds are slim. I’ll just come visit you, this summer. Everyone’s making me crazy up there, anyway.” She sighs and looks back at the doorway. “I better go, Mom’s already riding his ass for coming down, he’ll be booking out flights back right out there in the hall.” One last hug, and she slips away from the bed, giving Jon and Dany a sad smile. “Thanks for not dying, you crazy fucker.”

Jon chuckles and gives a wave, his other hand still intertwined with Dany’s. “Don’t be so mushy, asshole, you’re gonna make me cry in front of Dany.”

Arya lets out a bark of laughter and makes a rude gesture, and then she’s gone, and Jon tickles his index finger against hers, a thin, tired smile on his face. “Ahhh,” he sighs, “It’s always so nice when family comes to visit.”

Dany climbs back onto his bed and fits herself against his side, and he releases her hand to slide his arm around her shoulders. “Arya seems nice.” She presses a light kiss against his skin. “And your Uncle--”

“Still can’t quite get over the fact that I neither need nor want his interference in my life.” Jon’s head falls back onto his pillow, and she peeks up to see him facing away, towards the window. “He thinks he’s making up for all the times he wasn’t there, of course, but it’s a ‘too little, too late’ scenario now.” A bitter laugh escapes. “I’m 33 years old, for fuck’s sake. And he still doesn’t comprehend that I just don’t want the things he wants. I never have.”

With a deep breath, she slowly climbs back onto his lap, waiting until he turns to face her, knowing all too well the bitter sadness that she sees there in his eyes. She remembers how Rhaegar had tried his damndest to dissuade her from medical school, not doubt encouraged by Elia. And when he’d refused to give her the money from the trust that had been established for her when their parents died, claiming his role as trustee prevented him from funding such a pointless endeavor, encouraging her to instead find a nice man to settle down with, she’d had enough. And she’d put herself through school, instead, working every damned job she could find that would work around her classes and internships.

She didn’t invite Rhaegar to her graduation.

Jon slides his hands up her thighs as she cups his face in both hands. “What is it that you want, Detective?” She gives him a saucy smile as his hands rise higher, curving around her hips, and it does the trick. That veil of sadness seems to lift, as he tugs her closer.

But his face is a mask of innocence, even as he pulls her pelvis flush against his, his brow wrinkling in feigned confusion. “You mean you haven’t worked that out yet, Doctor?” Then he leans up, and kisses her, an act that would have been almost chaste had he not pulled her bottom lip between his at the last moment, suckling the plump flesh and teasing it with his tongue before releasing her. “Everything. Of course.”

Dany hums under her breath, and leans back in, her lips hovering just above his. “What a coincidence,” she whispers, and she can feel him smile against her mouth as she kisses him again.

\------------

Captain Seaworth is waiting at the curb when Dany and Jon leave the hospital. She has taken the day off, to help him ‘settle in’, and together they climb into the backseat of the man’s sedan, though Jon had been adamant that he wanted to walk the meager two blocks home.

But Davos had been persistent, and Jon had finally relented, though he still looks slightly miffed as they pull away onto the street. “Unnecessary,” he huffs out, frowning at the back of the Captain’s head.

“Quit your belly-aching, Jon. Humor me.”

Jon gives her a wry smile, and nudges her with his shoulder. “Is your boss this insufferable?”

Davos hears him and tutts, and Dany can see him shaking his head as their buildings come into view. “Watch yourself, Jon Snow, or there’ll be no more of Marya’s special pound cakes in your future.”

Jon stiffens, and real worry creases his face. “Sorry, Captain.”

“Much better.” They pull to a stop, and Dany climbs out first, holding the door open for Jon, who exits the vehicle a bit more gingerly. He’s still sore, on his left side, and the muscles will take time to heal, to knit back together, longer than the scars will take. She’s happy that he’s taking her numerous warnings not to aggravate that side seriously. He slings his duffel over his shoulder, and shuts the car door, tapping the roof of the car soundly as he leans down to speak to Davos through the passenger side window.

“Thanks for the lift.”

Davos gives them both a wave, and pulls away, and Jon and Dany are left standing in the stretch of sidewalk that sits between their respective apartment buildings. “Soooooo….,” he says, drawing the word out, eyeing the door to his building and then her. He seems nervous, all of a sudden, unsure, as if whatever intimacy had been built between them in the last two weeks is on the verge of collapse.

Jump, she tells herself. Jump.

“You should come up with me.” She doesn’t ask, because she doesn’t think it’s necessary. There is a flicker of relief in his eyes, even as he seems to consider her words. “Ghost is still there, after all. I’m sure you’d like to say hello.”

His uncertainty fades, in an instant, and he grabs her hand in his. “Lead the way, Doctor.”

They are quiet as they take the elevator up, but it’s a comfortable silence. There is no mystery, anymore, to where this is going, at least in the immediate future. And Jon is all smiles as she unlocks her door, following her in only to be immediately ambushed by an enthusiastic white mass of fur.

He laughs and kneels so that Ghost can lick at him frantically, his tail wagging so hard it shakes his whole body, a low whine escaping. “Hi, buddy,” Jon says, and hugs the dog around the neck, until Ghost backs up so that he can sniff at Jon intensely. “Miss me?” He croons to the dog, embracing him again, as Dany moves further into the apartment, stopping to slide a hand down Drogon’s back as he perches atop the cat tree in the corner of her living room.

She can see sprinkles of white hair along his black fur, and she snickers, rubbing her cheek against the top of his head. “I see you like your big fluffy pillow, hm?”

Dany can feel him approach, the tension between them growing like a living thing, and she shivers, just slightly, as his warm hands settle on her shoulders. “It’s weird,” he says quietly, lips brushing against her air, “seeing your place from this side of the glass.”

“Oh, yeah?” She turns, linking her hands behind his neck, tilting her head back to gaze up at him, lips curling up. “It’s kinda weird to both be on the same side, too.” He grips at her waist, pulling her closer until their chests touch.

“Bad weird or good weird?” He kisses the tip of her nose, eyes warm and curious.

She kisses him softly, lips lingering against the fullness of his. “Good weird,” she declares.

Dany has imagined this scenario, more times than she would care to admit, but particularly while he has been cloistered away in his hospital bed. She has played it through in her mind, although each step requires a bravery she hasn’t been sure she would find, until now. But the first part, the hardest part, is done, and he is here, in her space.

“But,” she continues, sobering, “I have to tell you something.”

His expression shifts, a glimmer of concern appearing. “What?”

She drops her head, pressing the tip of her nose to the notch in his collarbone, just above the neckline of his shirt, and takes a deep breath. Unable to stop herself, she slips her tongue out, taking a furtive taste of his skin. “You smell like a hospital.”

Jon Snow is a brilliant man. She knows this. And, as she had hoped, it only takes him moments to go from mildly confused to hungry. “Can I use your shower?”

Supremely satisfied, she smiles, and gestures down the hall towards her room. “Be my guest.”

He nods, appearing what she can only describe as smug, and heads down the hall, whistling as he goes. She watches him go, noticing he takes a second to look around her room, then nod to himself. When he turns, hand on the doorknob of the bathroom, he gives her an expectant look, then disappears.

Dany retreats to the kitchen, nervous butterflies swarming and swooping in her stomach, and pulls a water bottle from the fridge, leaning against the counter and noticing, abruptly, that both animals are watching her. “Too obvious?” There is no response, only more staring. “Should I go for it?”

Ghost begins to wag his tail. Drogon remains silent, but she is sure his yellow gaze is telling her she’s a supreme coward if she doesn’t. She hears the water turn on, muffled by the bathroom door, and closes her eyes, bouncing on her heels. “It’s fine,” she whispers to herself, fiddling with the bottle cap. “He wants you to come in there. You should go in.”

She’s pictured this, as well. How she will walk in, throw back the curtain and climb in to join him, ask if he needs help washing his back, or something equally cliched. The specifics haven’t really concerned her, until now, when she has imagined this. Dany counts to one-hundred in her head, allowing him time to get himself undressed and under the hot spray.

For as much as she is filled with nervous excitement, it’s the mental image of him naked in her shower that propels her forward. She steps into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her, and crosses to her low dresser. There is a large, wood-framed mirror mounted above, and she studies herself with new scrutiny as she steels herself and begins to strip off her clothes.

The thing is, she hasn’t been naked in front of anyone since her divorce, and even then it had been a dry few months there at the end, where she couldn’t even convince herself to want Daario.

Now here she is, about to boldly march in, naked, and she examines herself in a way she hasn’t in a long time. What will he think, when he sees her? He finds her attractive, she knows that, but now there’s nowhere to hide those parts of herself she doesn’t quite like. Maybe she’s not quite as firm as she was in her early twenties, but at thirty she thinks she’s still holding up well. Her breasts still sit high and full and firm, her stomach still a smooth flat plane. She twists and confirms that while she might want to work in some lunges here and there her ass is still shapely, hips still curving enticingly.

She meets her own eyes in the mirror, and gives herself an encouraging nod. “Get in there,” she tells herself, and grabs a hair elastic from the dresser top, securing her long silver waves in a messy bun on top of her head.

“Okay,” she whispers, and heads to the door, pausing only for a moment to screw her eyes shut and take a few quick, anxious breaths. “Stop being stupid,” she chides under her breath, and grabs the cool metal knob in her hand, turning it quietly and slipping into the bathroom. The air is humid, a thin veil of fog hanging, steaming up the mirror, and she swallows hard as she steps across the cold tile floor and onto the bath mat that sits just outside the shower stall. The room is done up in pale blues and creams, and through the opaque curtain, the color of the sky, she can see the vague outline of Jon Snow.

Her mind has gone blank, and she panics for a moment, trying to think of some clever, saucy little quip, when he speaks. “About time, Doctor.” She lets out a squeak when he pulls the curtain back, his hair wet and hanging in dark tendrils down his face. “I could use some help.”

The Detective makes no effort to hide the way he takes her in, his dark, hooded gaze travelling down her body. She stays still, frozen by the lusty appreciation she sees, toes curling into the pile of the cream-colored rug under her feet. Then, as though he is forcing himself to look back up, his eyes snap to hers. “Bloody hells,” he rasps. “Get in here.”

She grins in spite of herself, pushing the curtain aside and stepping in behind him. He faces the spray, and she gets an unobstructed view of what she has suspected, but can now confirm, is the finest ass she’s ever seen in person. Gods, he is beautiful, and her lips part as she blatantly ogles his strong legs, and narrow hips, his absolutely impeccable ass, the corded planes of muscles on his back. 

He sneaks a look over his shoulder and smirks, handing her the bottle of body wash from the caddy that hangs from the shower head. “I truthfully cannot wash my back.” She giggles and takes the bottle from him, squirting out a handful of the amber-colored liquid, rubbing her palms together and starting at his shoulders. She works her way down his back, slowly, letting her hands test his flesh, suds beginning to form as she massages the soap into his wet skin.

Jon holds still, bracing a hand against the shower wall, letting out a light moan every now and then as she continues her ministrations. By the time she reaches the small of her back she is more aroused than she can ever remember being, just the feel of him enough to make the desire welling in her pool hot and sticky between her thighs. If he wasn’t still healing, she would strike, she knows it. But she doesn’t want to hurt him, or cause him to hurt himself, just to sate her own needs, so she keeps the sweeping motion of her palms slow and methodical.

She bites her lip as she steps closer, close enough to feel the spray of water that splashes off his skin, close enough that the tips of her nipples brush against his back. He groans, loudly, at that, and lets out a heavy breath. She presses her thighs together, biting back a moan, at hearing her own hunger echoed back.

So she allows herself to slide her hands down, and cup the left curve of his ass, squeezing, humming in pleasure. He’s holding himself so tensely that she knows he is fighting for control, knows he is aware that for now, their options are rather limited. In a perfect world she would be begging him to lift her up and fuck her against the tile wall, but that’s not possible.

She presses against his back fully, and lets her left hand slip around his waist, wandering teasingly around his navel. That earns her a dark chuckle, the muscles of his abdomen tensing, rigid, as she follows the thin, coarse trail of hair she blindly finds. Then she feels him, feels the stiff, hard length of his cock as it bobs against her wrist, and she grins against his back. “What have we here?”

He laughs, again, but it is chased by a moan as her index finger follows his shaft, base to tip, lingering at the head, warm water slicking him under her touch. “You’d be a piss-poor doctor if you aren’t sure.”

His amusement turns swiftly into a growl as she fists him, loosely, dragging her hand slowly along his cock, savoring the way he throbs against her palm in time with his frantic heartbeat. His head drops, directly into the water streaming from the spout, his breathing choppy and erratic as she strokes experimentally, finding what makes him sputter and thrust further into her grip.

Then he spins, suddenly, twisting out of her grip, water dripping from his soaked hair and trailing in rivulets down his body. She wants to trace each line with her mouth, but she can’t, because he is holding her absolutely captive with a hot, predatory stare.

He is on her, in an instant, backing her against the wall, mouth falling onto hers with abandon, tongue spearing between her lips as he begins to devour her, like a man starving. She does not simply melt into the delicious assault; she wraps her arms around his neck, holding him closer, feeding him a keening whine as she arches against him, breasts rubbing against the smooth skin of his chest, each sensitive tip only tantalized further at the contact.

At the sound, he pulls back, breathing hard, and his eyes are nearly black, now. They fall to her breasts, and something like a whimper escapes before he is craning his neck, his large hands sliding up beneath her shoulder blades, arching her into his mouth as he pulls one stiff, pink nipple into his mouth. Dany lets out a cry, keeping one hand around his neck, anchoring him to her, as the other smacks loudly against the wall. Gods, it’s been so long, since she’s been touched like this, and it’s perfect, it’s so perfect, how he suckles and pulls, then releases, grazing his teeth against her just to start over again.

She shifts, restlessly, and he takes the hint, attacking her other breast with equal fervor, and she’s overwhelmed by it, by how he seems to grasp what she wants, how he teases her and flicks his tongue against her nipple, eyes trained on her the whole time, testing to see what she likes best.

For several moments there is only the sound of the water hitting the shower floor and his mouth feasting on her, coupled with her moans and whispers of his name, but soon it is not enough, for either of them. Jon straightens and spins a finger in the air. “Turn around.”

On wobbly legs she complies, and he wastes no time mirroring their previous position, but this time he is blanketing her, his cock trapped against the small of her back, thrusting against her in small, smooth motions even as his hands begin to wander.

His breath comes hot and heavy in her ear, and she can see him, in her periphery, his face turned down, watching with her as he molds and shapes his hands to the curves of her breasts, pinching and pulling at her nipples gently, at first, then harder, eyes checking to her face every now and then to gauge her reaction. “You’re so beautiful. Every inch of you.”

She wants to tell him that she thinks he is beautiful, too, but she can’t find the words, because his hands drop lower, mimicking her teasing from before, teasing in a line, side to side, just below her navel. She is happy she waxed the day prior, has almost forgotten the way it feels, to have a man’s hand slide down to her cunt, tracing along the bared flesh.

They moan in tandem, as his index finger splits the lips of her cunt and finds the hot, slick evidence of how much she wants him. He bites gently only her earlobe and she bites her lip again, harder, as he circles her clit slowly. When he stops, she lets out a whine of protest, but he does not stray far, just reaches up and peels one of her hands away from the wall and brings it back to her cunt, lacing their fingers together. “Show me,” he whispers hotly, and she shudders against him in excitement when she realizes when he means. “Show me,” he urges again, as he moves their fingers against her, in unison, resuming that maddening circling of her clit.

Dany can do nothing but what he asks, taking the lead, knowing well what she needs to get herself off. She teaches him the way, slipping their fingers down to spread the wetness that seeps from her up and teasing on either side of her clit before slipping against it, increasing the pressure as together they work to bring her to the orgasm that has been building, she thinks, for months.

He bats her hand away, then, and takes over, and he’s a fast learner. Before long, she’s teetering on the edge, nearly there, but she needs more, she needs to ease the aching emptiness as she tenses. “Inside me,” she mumbles, breathless, head swimming that this is finally happening, that it’s not some feverish fantasy she’s indulging in, alone in her bed, wishing he was there.

No, this is real, she is sure, because she could never have dreamed up the way it feels as he sinks his teeth into the base of her neck, just as he slips one long, thick finger into her. Her walls grab at him snugly; it’s been ages since there has been anything but her own fingers inside her, and it’s so much better, mind-numbingly better, that it’s him. She rocks herself into his hand, his thumb resuming the task of worrying against her clit as another finger joins the first. He knows what he is doing, that is clear to her, as he pushes them inside her, thrusting in time to the tempo of his thumb, quickly finding that spot inside her that makes her give a harsh gasp of his name as he rubs the pads of his fingers against it with each stroke.

And then she’s coming, and she isn’t sure she ever has, not like this, so hard her eyes slam shut, and there is nothing but darkness and stars as her cunt flutters and grabs at his fingers. He lets out a satisfied hum, slowing but not stopping, milking every last shuddering ripple from her as she leans her elbows against the wall, sagging against her arms, her ragged pants echoing, surrounding them. His cock is hard and insistent as she straightens, pleasantly numb, leaning back against his chest and craning her neck to find his lips.

For a moment, all she can do is lose herself to the hazy, sweet release that he’s given her, and tease her mouth against his, but his hand is still teasing her, and she knows if she lets him he will take her there again, without her even asking. There’s time for that, she thinks, but more pressing is the desire to see him break apart, because of her, and it’s enough to make her break away, her breathing still uneven. “You’re very thorough, Detective,” she whispers, and he kisses her again, quickly, smiling against her lips.

“One of my many talents,” he says, and she pushes his hand away from her, gently, turning in his arms as he frowns. “I wasn’t done yet,” he says, and there is a pout building, as he juts his chin out.

“Later,” she promises, and glances down at his cock, flushed red and bobbing between them. She kisses the tip of his nose, and moves closer, enjoying the press of his length against her stomach. “I want to take care of you, too. And we have to be careful.” He thrusts against her, an involuntary jerk, and she smiles. “Let’s get out, if you slip and fall in here I’ll never forgive myself.”

He looks like he wants to argue, but she holds his eyes, face stern. “Aye, alright. If you insist.”

They dry off quickly, haphazardly, a pitiful attempt, really, both to focused on each other to notice the damp patches of skin left behind, water still beading along her spine and visible on his shoulders. It doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters, except the flurry of motion that carries them to her bed, hands exploring and mouths eagerly joined, until she feels her mattress bump against the back of her knees. She knows what she’s pictured next, a scene that has changed since he got hurt, and she pushes gently at his shoulders forcing him to step away, as she turns to the bed.

His hands are on her hips in an instant, as she bends over, and she’s tempted to let this happen, his cockhead bumping against her opening as she reaches for the pillows at the head of the bed. But she was serious, she doesn’t want him to overexert himself, not yet. There will be time for that, she promises herself.

Jon teases against her for a moment but clearly notices what her hands are doing, and once she has arranged the pillows to her satisfaction she straightens, giving him a slow, sultry kiss that leaves their mouths as damp as their skin.

“Get on the bed,” she husks against his mouth, “back against the pillows.”

She strokes her fingers against the bristling hair at his jaw, and he nods, catching and holding her gaze with his as he does as she asks. It isn’t a mystery, what she has planned, and he is already holding his hands out as he settles against the pillows, legs straightening as she straddles his upper thighs. Oh yes, he knows, and his eyes seem unable to settle anywhere for long, especially as she moves forward, knees bent and tucked tight against his hips, levering up so that his cock is wonderfully close to where they both want him.

He tugs his bottom lip between his teeth, watching closely, transfixed as she takes him in her hand, giving him a teasing stroke as she aligns herself more fully. She’s tried to imagine his cock plenty of times, but he’s a bit bigger than she’d anticipated, and so she takes her time as she sinks down onto him, inch by delicious inch, welcoming the slight sting as he stretches her, filling her completely, every part of her, until she is flush against him.

Dany waits a moment, for them both, adjusting to the welcome intrusion, letting him adjust as well. His mouth falls open, and he grabs at her hips, his grip tight as he rocks up, groaning, biting out her name. She’s so wet that when she rises it is easy, that earlier, hazy bliss from moments ago fading as want is sparked anew in her, roaring to life as she begins to ride him. She starts slow, with sinuous rolls of her hips, her eyes straying to where they are joined, transfixed by the sight of his cock disappearing into her. But soon, she increases her pace, changing the angle, seeking the contact she craves as the friction begins to build the tension inside her again, that coiling spring in her spine, in her cunt.

“Fuck, Dany,” he moans, hands now grabbing for her ass, bringing her down on his more forcefully as she grinds down onto him, clit rubbing against his pelvis every time their skin slaps together. It is building in him, as well, the release she wants to coax from him, and she mindlessly brings her hands to tease and pluck at her nipples, watching as his eyes sharpen and darken into pools of heady want, his tongue sneaking out to lick at his lips.

She feels the shift, his knees rising behind her back, his feet planted on the bed, and she wails as he begins to fuck her as best he can from this position, using the leverage he’s created to drive further into her, and soon there is nothing she can do but arch and twist and gasp as he grunts in effort, her name mingling with scattered curses as his whole body tenses, as tendons cord and stand out in his neck, as she begins to flutter around his hard length and break apart again.

It spurs him on, as she falls apart, his hands keeping her steady as he jerks and shudders beneath her, and then she feels it, the hot spill of him flooding her, and the reality of it hits her again, because she couldn’t have imagined this, not in a million years, how wonderful it feels, how his face looks as he’s swept away, too.

She is lost in him, completely, and the notion has terrified her, before, but now there is nothing but euphoria, as they slow, and gasp for air, and her face twists as she sees the intimate, tender smile that claims his mouth, as his eyes fall shut again.

Dany wants to stay like this forever, really, just to stay this close to him, to stay lost, to stay hidden, because it’s easy with him, comfortable, no lingering shyness or worry as she slips off him begrudgingly, and collapses beside him. She assumes the position that’s become familiar, now, snuggling against his side, head on his shoulder. Her curtains are closed but there is a narrow sliver of daylight creeping through, the midmorning sun painting a stripe of gold across their bodies. It’s enough for her to see those scars on his chest, those places she stitched him back together.

The truth, though, one she is sure of, in her bones, now, is that he has put her back together, too. Jon Snow has taken the scattered pieces of her, and assembled them, into something different, something new, and she lays her palm on his chest, over his heart, feeling the way it still pounds, even as it slows.

His hand creeps over to sweep errant strands of hair from her face, and she tilts her head up.

There are things they do not say, still, and it hovers in the air between them, that thing that sits on the tip of her tongue, that thing her heart longs to force out, that her mind resists allowing her to say, because her heart has always been far more reckless and foolish.

And there is still that narrow corner of her mind that says she should wait, wait and see if this lasts, wait and see if this works.

So that’s what she will do, she will wait, just a bit longer. For now, she allows herself to be pulled up for a gentle kiss, content with allowing him to see it there, in her eyes, and hoping it’s enough.

\-------------

For the next month, they settle into a pattern, but this one is infinitely more satisfying than what has come before. It just happens, organically, just another thing that is understood, that doesn’t require long discussions.

Every week or so they alternate apartments, first his, then hers, and before long he has a litter box and a cat tree, and the corner of her bedroom plays host to a large, overstuffed dog bed, a scattering of toys always occupying it because she learns Ghost is a bit of a hoarder, and she laughs every time she sees him collect every last one and tuck them into the sherpa skin lining, making sure he’s laying on top of them before he goes to sleep.

Drogon, the grumpy little beast that he can be, surprises her. The second day Jon spends at her apartment finds the black cat perched on the back of her couch, just above Jon’s shoulder, where he sits reviewing a file Davos has brought him. She watches, shocked, as he curls up and rests his head on Jon’s shoulder as he sips absently at his coffee.

She falls in love with him just a little bit more when he finally tears his eyes from the case file and gives the cat a crooked smile, scratching behind Drogon’s ears before turning his attention back to his work.

He is on desk duty towards the end of the month, and he hates it, and grumbles incessantly about it, but she doesn’t mind. The way he laughs when she tells him how cute he is, when he’s all broody and mopey, is worth it, and besides, she does her share of brooding and grumping, too.

They are as they were, but better, because now, when her shift is over and she comes home, whether it is her apartment or his, he is there to fold her in his arms and listen. He doesn’t push, just waits, and if she doesn’t want to talk about it, he doesn’t mind a bit.

By the time their second month of actually being together rolls around, nine months now from that first look they shared through their windows, he is medically cleared for full duty, and they celebrate by finally going to the burger place he’d meant to take her too, on their date that never happened.

They share the same side of the booth, stealing each other’s fries, and she admits to him that he was absolutely right as she takes a massive bit of what is truly the best burger she’s ever had.

“I love you,” is his response, and she nearly chokes, and coughs and sputters until she swallows, her eyes wide as she tries to assure herself that he said it, he really did, marvelling again that Jon seems determined to be the bravest of the two.

Her eyes flood, and he pales, wincing. “That was out loud, wasn’t it.” He wrinkles his napkin between his fingers, and her silence, she sees has given him the worst sort of impression, and he starts to turn his head away from her until she manages to unfreeze herself, her hand taking his jaw and holding him in place.

“I love you, too.”

He beams, and she is flooded with warmth, and it’s like the sun on her face, because it is simply known that while his smiles are rare, each one is a gift, something precious that he gives her. She leans in to kiss him, forcing herself to remember that they are in public, pulling back before things can escalate and they get themselves kicked out, because that would be a tragedy. She’d really like to eat here again.

They smile stupidly at each other, and then he nods, and raises his burger to his lips, and that’s it. It’s just out there, and they’ve said it, so now it just simply is. He loves her and she loves him and that is just how things are.

She is the happiest she’s ever been, and she thinks he might be, too.

\-------------

One morning, in their tenth month together, she watches him clatter around in her kitchen. He has decided he will make breakfast for her, for them, and he is scrambling eggs as best he can, shooing Ghost away every time he comes to beg at the stove for a piece of bacon from the plate on the counter.

It’s adorable to her, the way he proudly presents her with a plate, and takes a seat beside her in a stool at the counter.

She takes a bite, as he does, and the eggs are good, they really are, until there is a telltale crunch. He must bite into a piece of eggshell as well, and he groans and hangs his head, face flushing as he raises his head and frowns. “Fuck,” he mutters, “Sorry, love. Not sure how I managed to screw up scrambled eggs, but here we are.”

Dany blocks his hands when he tries to take her plate. “I like them crunchy,” she says, taking another bite, grinning around the mouthful.

He stares at her then, so long that she starts to think something is wrong, and she’s about to ask when he stands and reaches in the pocket of his sweatpants.

“Dany?’ He sounds nervous, eyes darting around everywhere, his jaw tense.

“Jon?” She’s starting to get worried, and that little niggling fear that she thought had vanished is alive and well, and she just knows, she just knows this is it. He’s done, and he’s trying to break it to her gently, and her throat seems to close up as her brow wrinkles in concern.

There is something in his hand, when he pulls it free.

And then she can’t breathe at all, her heart hammering, pulse pounding in her ears, because she knows what that is, that small, black, velvet box.

“It’s okay to say no,” he says, in a rush, as though he’s forcing himself. “I know how sideways shit went for you, before, and I get it, I really do, and if you don’t want to do it, I’m okay with that, but--”

She swallows the lump in her throat and slips from her stool, and puts her hand over his mouth. “I know you aren’t him, Jon. I know.” He stops trying to talk, just listening as she continues on, softly. “You’re not like anyone else.” She removes her hand and gestures towards the box. “Can I see?”

“Oh, right,” he says, endearing as he fumbles to open it, and her eyes well as she sees what’s nestled inside, because it’s perfect. A single solitaire diamond, tastefully sized, set in a platinum band. “If you don’t like it I can get you something different, I just thought it looked like you, when I saw it, but if you--”

She arches her brows. “Stop.” Then she smiles, the wavering kind, where she’s holding back tears, the happy kind. She extends her hand towards him, the left one, and waits. “Yes.”

He’s so beautiful, when he’s happy, when he’s overjoyed, but then he stops, and the look falls away, replaced by apprehension. “Wait, yes, you want to get married, or yes you want a different ring.”

She snickers and shakes her head, and sighs. “Really, Detective? Come now, I expect better than that from you. What do you think?” She wiggles her fingers and he grins, blindingly, and slips the ring onto her finger.

“Well, Doctor,” he says dryly, folding their hands together and then pulling her against his chest, holding her to him tightly, “Even the most deductive minds would rather ask than assume, when the stakes are high.”

He kisses her, passionately, every ounce of the love that lingers between them pouring out, in the way his lips move against hers, the way his tongue slides and plays with her own, the way his hands crawl along her back and trace her curves. When he pulls back they are both breathless, and he laughs, and looks back to their plates. “You don’t have to eat that, you know.” He nods towards her eggs. “I can try again.”

She shakes her head and giggles, and presses a kiss to the hollow of his throat, before reclaiming her seat. She shakes her head adamantly. “Don’t you dare. I love these eggs.”

And she finishes them, her eyes fondly dropping to the ring on her finger every now and then, because she can’t help it. She watches the way it sparkles even as they rinse their dishes, and change, heading out to take Ghost for a walk so he can work off his morning energy.

Their hands are locked together, even as they walk, and she knows that this is it, this is her future, this man who knows her so completely, knows even the darkest, ugliest parts of her, just as she does him. He loves her despite them or maybe because of them, because with Jon, she doesn’t have to keep up appearances, doesn’t have to pretend to be someone or something she isn’t.

She can just be, and so can he, and she can’t think of anything better, because now, when she is at her lowest, she has him, to lose herself in, to find herself in, and she cannot imagine settling for anything less, not now, not ever.


End file.
